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doomsdaybby · 2 months

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finally posting my contribution to @carolmunson’s cutest writing challenge!

please please please join in if you can!! there’s no pressure, and I had such a good time with this. it made me all giggly and soft, which is something I haven’t experienced to this level whilst writing for a little while 🫶🏻

the scene: a romantic night in at the trailer

props: a throw pillow, vanilla frosting, a small notebook

dialogue prompts can be found in the original guidelines post linked up top!

word count: 3.5k (huh?!!? this ended up a lot longer than I anticipated)

content/warnings: female physical descriptions and she/her pronouns used for reader character throughout, original series eddie (no au), friends to lovers, questioning relationship (unestablished, that weird in between), first date, fluff on fluff on fluff, a little angsty at the start but we lighten up, cringe-worthy flirting that makes my heart flutter, first kiss (🥹!!!!), slightly suggestive (no smut), swearing.

The cool evening breeze sweeps at the hem of your pinafore dress, a fitted denim ensemble that hugs the fat of your hips and thighs, sitting snugly at your waist, paired with a pretty floral long-sleeve.

The trailer park can be spooky at this time of night, especially with a little chill in the air - you have always gotten the creeps standing out here too long. You tuck the two VHS tapes you’d brought along under your arm, a six-pack of Miller Lite beers grasped faithfully in one hand, the other free fingers fidgeting with some loose cotton strands at the end of your sleeve.

Now that you were here for a date, you surely couldn’t just knock twice and waltz in like you own the place, like you usually do. Jesus, your collar is fucking tight. You fumble with your shirt, forefinger raking back and forth over the threads, the thin material somehow not granting you enough precious airflow.

You had never been so nervous around Eddie. Never had you really needed to think about your outfit or your hair or even your goddamn makeup.

But now. Now, it was different. After a slip of the tongue amidst a heated argument over something that you couldn’t even place clearly anymore. One that erupted because Eddie had failed another math test, or another subject similar along those lines. Not caring about his education enough to actually scrape his high school diploma from the bottom of the barrel, one that would soon be a vacant void if he didn’t pull his head out of his ass.

“Why do you even care?!” he had yelled at you, actually fucking yelled. Eddie hated the way you looked at him, eyes laced with disappointment and an anger you didn’t mean; the downturn of your brows and a deep crease at the very top of the bridge of your nose. A place that he had wanted to litter with gentle kisses more times than he could count.

It had shocked him too, the sudden raise of his voice, an air of malice coating the words. Though it wasn’t aimed at you, not really. Eddie just couldn’t bear the idea of you, somebody he cares so much about, being yet another person that viewed him as such a failure.

It had just tumbled out, an admittance of pathetic besotted pining that had built to mountainous heights over the years. A mentos in a cola bottle, the whistle of a kettle on the stove at boiling point, you just couldn’t help it.

“Because I like you!” you had called back twice as loud, though the ferocity was near triple of Eddie’s.

“Like, really fucking like you, Eds” you admitted quieter that time, only able to steal quick glances at his astounded expression - a jarred sort of picture painted on his face, chocolate eyes wide and jaw loose at the hinges.

“You… you do?”

So here you stood one week later, on a chilly mid-March Saturday night, on the front step of Eddie Munson’s trailer - a person who you held near and dear as a friend since middle school and, at arm's length, a kindling flame, always believing that your infatuation was completely one-sided.

Therefore once your romantic desires turned out to be reciprocated, your heart was in your throat and your head spun dizzy in a dream-like state.

Another flatten of the front of your dress, a press of your middle finger to the tacky gloss of your lips, and you were knocking on the front door. Folding your arms over yourself was a grand task to keep yourself busy for a moment - fingers strangled by the plastic casing surrounding the alcohol and tapes almost slipping from under their secure hiding spot.

You start to pick clumsily at the skin just above the nook of your elbow whilst you wait for said date to answer the door. Of course he didn’t keep you waiting long, though it was foreign for him to have to answer the door to you. Eddie appears in five seconds flat, hair perfectly mussed and the waft of his aftershave - the surprisingly good kind, pine and amber - erupts millions of butterflies in the pit of your stomach.

You feel like a dumbass kid, one disgustingly love-struck and naive. A feeling you aren’t overly familiar with, not to this degree. Of course you had your school girl crushes, fawning over your too large poster of Rick Springfield you had pinned up on proud display at the back of your bedroom door.

But with Eddie? It was totally unmarked territory, when you step meekly into his living room, uncharacteristically bashful, it sets alight that same adrenaline rush as if you were diving headfirst into shark infested waters. This was real life, your real life. He wasn’t a chart-topping celebrity you had ripped pages out of magazines for, Eddie was someone you had known only on platonic terms for nearly ten years.

“You look nice. Like, uh, really nice” Eddie compliments as he shuts the door.

“Y’made an effort for little ol’ me?” his grin stretches wide, a real pretty wide, a sort of grin that has never-ending smile lines rippling across his pink cheeks. Eddie matches your bashfulness, a shared tensisity that envelopes the air between you like thick black smoke accompanying the climbing licks of a fire.

You snort, such flattering remarks like this from him in this context was weird, but it felt so fucking good.

“You clean up pretty well yourself” your smile matches his, and it was true. Eddie did make an effort when it mattered; decked out in neat black jeans that unusually had no holes in the knees, the same makeshift handcuff belt, a faded white Van Halen t-shirt, completed with a dark olive green flannel that was cuffed to the elbows as the cherry on top.

The man was looking delicious, the same ripened fruit that tempted Eve in the garden of Eden, but you try not to stare too hard.

“I brought a couple movies,” you say, setting the beers atop the kitchen counter. “We’ve got ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’ or one that Harrington said was pretty good, ‘The Breakfast Club’”.

You hold them both up to Eddie, who is smirking, a boyish expression that makes your stomach do backflips.

“Those are two wildly different options,” he snickers for a moment, a small pause before continuing with a mischievous bite, “And Harrington, huh?”.

Your brow raises warily, sensing a playful game of verbal tennis stirring up between you, the atmosphere electric. “I mean yeah, he does work there, Eds”.

“Aaahhh,” Eddie strings with an epitome of understanding, one you’re not certain that you’re following. “Now I know why you were almost a half hour late. Y’been chatting it up with other guys.”

“Don’t be like that,” you scold him lightly, “That’s not even true! Plus, do you really think I'd be here on a date with you if I had the hots for pretty boy?”.

Eddie takes pride of place at the end of the couch closest to you, hair enveloping his face as he crosses the living room.

“Oh? So he's a pretty boy now too?”.

You’re propped up against the kitchen counter, hip to the wooden cabinet, elbow leaning on the counter top. “You are the easiest person to get a rise out of, you know,” there was that smile again, a fond roll of your eyes in hand with the blooming cherry red at the apples of your cheeks.

Plus you’re prettier anyways, by a long shot.

“Hm. Will need to have a talk with Stevie-boy about trying to steal my girl”. Eddie notices the beaming display of pearly whites that earns him, one as radiant and scorching as the July afternoon sun.

‘My girl’.

It lights you ablaze from the inside out, the pound of your heart a booming bass drum in your ears, one vicious and overwhelming, and you suddenly become aware of every single vein and delicate capillary rushing with red hot blood.

“So… movie?” you’re holding up the chunky VHS tapes in either hand, insinuating pointedly to the macabre horror you were both certainly more inclined to, a jiggle of the dull clunk of plastic on plastic.

“Your choice, babe.” Eddie stretches an arm across the back of the couch, one leg swung up onto the well-worn cushion folded into a triangular shape. The space he had left for you was near disastrously tempting, able to fit perfectly cozy beside him, head crooked into the juncture of his neck.

Babe wasn’t new, but tonight it strung velvety smooth across his vocal cords with a much rosier lilt. Of course Eddie notices the bite at the inside of your cheek, the tightening at the corner of your mouth whilst you turn away from him. God, you don’t think that you’ll ever get used to this sort of giddiness.

“You got popcorn?” a wiggle of your brows in his direction and he’s giggling, a noise you hadn’t quite heard, breezy and flippant, overly juvenile but it was endearing.

“Actually,” Eddie jumps up from his spot on the couch, the shabby fabric already indented with a shadowed figure, remaining perfectly vacant until the owner returned.

“I thought that we could make chocolate chip cookies. You like cookies, right?” He pulls the multitude of ingredients from the cupboards and fridge, a stockpile threatening to topple from his arms. You watch him fondly, head propped up on the heels of your palms.

“I wrote the recipe down in this notebook. Debbie a couple doors down wouldn’t let me borrow her cookbook, said I couldn’t be trusted. Not sure if they’ll turn out any good but, yeah,” Eddie peers at you doe-eyes as he scratches the back of his head, fluffy locks exaggerated. He had washed his hair, it was always a dramatic transformation when he did. You were special.

“You made all this effort for little ol’ me?” you perk up, eyes swimming crystalline, brimming with the kind of tenderness only you could omit. Eddie chuckles, flipping open the notebook to decipher his rushed scrawling decorating the lines in smudged black ink.

So you did bake cookies together, a welcome ease to the tautness that strung tight in the air. You could get used to this, pottering around the kitchen, knowing Eddie on this entirely new plane of existence. You bump hips and snicker like kindergarteners, swiping off stray puffs of flour that somehow managed to settle under his eyes, allowing your thumbs to linger there for some selfish moments too long.

“I ran out of like, the nice cups, is this okay?” Eddie hands you the now chiller beer on ice once your baked goods sat safe and sound on the oven rack, a rather ghastly looking E.T. printed onto the cool glass. The picture was chipped and scraped in parts, appearing crummy considering the movie was still fairly new, though you didn’t mind.

You survey the glass up at your nose, rotating your wrist clockwise and opposite, lips form a downturn when you realise that the poor friendly alien had been decapitated without the tender loving care it obviously needed.

“It’s perfect”, you exhale a brief laugh lightheartedly, patting the cushion beside you, and Eddie spared not a moment more before he dived onto the couch with a similarly shabby looking glass in hand, though this one was embellished with a flaking Lord of the Rings design.

Now you were lounging together, taking up that place beside Eddie you had peered at so ardently earlier in the night, his hair brushing your cheek and the trailer enveloped in a cushy blanket of navy, apart from the blaring flickering white of the television screen.

Your head rests against his collarbone, his own tilted downwards so that his jawline was cushioned by your crown. This kind of more intimate contact came with a natural ease that neither of you had expected. The longer the clock ticked by, spending time together like this went from the sensation of that first crisp splash into the deep end of the pool that froze you to the bone, slowly, to the comfortable warming lull of floating down the lazy river.

You could float down the lazy river hand in hand with Eddie for the rest of eternity.

You weren’t sure how long you both enjoyed each other's company, the closeness, the minor skin to skin contact - long enough to empty your first cups of beer. But the awful smell of something burning soon seeped in from the direction of your precious cookies in the oven.

Eddie’s head shoots up when yours does, two noses sniffing up at the air. Eddie darts for the kitchen, and low and behold, behind the dirtied glass of the door and swaddled in smoke, were some very cremated looking cookies.

“You didn’t set a timer?” you questioned him, following close to his heels as he allows the smoke to billow free. The kitchen area quickly enfolds with the smog, stinging your eyes and catching at the backs of your throats. It was only a matter of time before the noise of the movie was drowned out by the alarming smoke detector.

“You said you would!” Eddie asserts, dumping the blackened cookies into the trash bearing an extremely puppy-like look on his face as you’re fanning the detector with a dish towel.

He sets the now empty tray back on the counter, winces at the high pitched ringing whilst pressing his finger to close off one ear. With another few bats of the rag, the alarm finally shuts off, and Eddie stands hand on hip just staring at you.

You shrug your shoulders, a pitying purse of your lips when the boy's face falls, brows pinching ever so faintly. You could kiss away every sad face he ever pulled.

“You have any vanilla frosting?” you ask lightly, shuffling through the cabinets only to find a couple tins of canned soup and a box of half eaten cheeze-its. Eddie observes the ingredients you had packed neatly away next to the sink, unfortunately not enough remained to make another batch.

“I don’t know where you think you are but I can assure you that I don’t,” his voice is sterner than he intends, crossing his arms, pissed off at himself that he had messed up what he wanted to be a perfect first date.

“Sad,” you respond dryly through a suck of the teeth, tilting your head back and towards him, almost swinging from the handles of the cabinets. “I could eat that shit with a spoon”.

Eddie grimaces, “and you… like that?”.

You mirror his expression, glossy lips stretching into an open-mouthed half smirk, arms folded and shoulders slumped forwards, turning full bodied to step gradually into his personal space. You have to crane your neck up some to meet his eyes, ones as dark as a piping hot shot of espresso.

“Eddie, it’s okay,” you assure him when his spread fingers skate lightly along his clothed ribs, a self-soothing action you were well accustomed to, one that shatters your heart a little. “The grocery store might still be open, we can go get some ice cream”.

You run your own fingers along the tops of his arms, brushing beneath the cuff of his sleeves. Your touch was soft, delicate, fingertips glacial compared to the flush of his skin. Eddie Munson was on fire.

“Hey…” You press the palm of your hand to his cheek, stippled a carnation coloured pink due to the light buzz of alcohol, plus the fact that you were touching him so tenderly had his pulse point racing. It was an innate response, to reach up and press the plush of your lips to his cheek, barely an inch or two from the corner of his mouth.

“I’m having a really good time with you, okay?”.

“Okay…” Eddie murmurs back, a low melodious noise as one large fervent hand closes over the one you held to his face. You think that he is about to return the favour, maybe draw you into another one of many tight hugs you had shared before.

Except by the way Eddie tugs at your sleeve behind your elbow, his arms unraveling to welcome you chest to chest, you swallow over a dry throat in the moments it takes you to catch up.

Eddie’s lips are soft, you already suspected that by the pouts you were a victim to over the years, fleeting thoughts of what they would feel like pressed to yours.

His body invades yours, the kitchen surrounding you bleeding into a shadowy blur, bleeding hazes of the movie scenes bursting into crimson and neutral coloured supernovas. Your hands are buried in his shaggy brown locks before you could even register your movements, pinching at his roots at the nape of his neck.

It was desperate. It was downright addicting, the way he tasted. His lips tacky with your glassy strawberry flavoured gloss, smearing to the corners with every open mouthed part. It was a shot of heroine in your veins and the highest of highs Eddie could never dream of reaching, a hit like no other.

The ice wasn’t just broken, the entire frozen lake was smashed to smithereens beneath your feet. Though you cut it short before anything can get too hot and heavy despite the sting it spikes right at the center of your heart.

“For the record…” he interjects, a tiny whisp of a kiss pressed to the end of your nose, “I think you’re sweet enough. You don’t need any frosting” Eddie smirks when you part, tone less cloudy and more challenging, that lost puppy-dog expression replaced by a playful and troublemaking smugness.

Your lips seal together in a tight line, despite his atrocious attempt at some romantic banter, neither of you could keep it in for very long, and you both burst out in reams of laughter.

You push him away at the chest, though your hands certainly linger there, basking in the physical contact that you now craved more than ever. “Never say that to me again! Come on, loser. We have a movie to finish”.

Your attention no longer settles on the teens in peril before you, the guts and gore no longer piquing any iota of interest. Eddie’s hands were all over you, though not in a sinful sense. It was suggestive, sure.

The tap tap tap of his fingers at the inside of your thigh, an absentminded tick to distract Eddie’s racing mind. His nails skimming the tender ticklish flesh at the curve of your neck, catching the thrumming artery and the muted hitch of your breath, up behind the back of your ear and down to brush at your collarbone beneath your shirt.

You’re turned into him now, a casual position where you could both hide behind the throw pillow and giggle through a particular jumpscare.

“Stop making me nervous” you mutter, his grin lengthening twice as wide when he notices that you’re smiling too.

“I'm making you nervous?” he nuzzles his nose under your cheekbone, pressing further into you to trap you at the corner of the couch, one hand grasps at your shoulder whilst the other strokes small feathery circles just above your knee.

“Eddie!” you exclaim, sitting up and away a fraction from the warmth of his side, grabbing the throw pillow within your reach to swat at his chest.

“Baby”.

Your eyes light up, a startle shaking in your chest, releasing a whisper of a gasp you didn’t mean to. Eddie tilts his head to the side, closing the gap between you a little more, eyes heavy lidded and they twinkle with the reflection of the screen across the room.

His voice is low, muttering to you as if he’s sharing a secret. “I can call you that? baby?”.

“If- if you don’t stop that right now, Munson, we’re gonna have a problem”. Christ, he’s making you fucking tremble.

“Oof, and we’re back to last name basis,” Eddie feigns offense, palm to his sternum in a false wound of his ego. Though he’s impossibly close now, lips meer inches from meeting for a second time, and you can almost fucking taste him again.

“My girl seems to work pretty well on you,” his breath skims the bridge of your nose, cheap beer and spearmint.

“If you’re trying to make this go somewhere that you shouldn’t be…”

Eddie inhales a dramatic breath, clutching at his shirt. “How dare you suggest such a thing! I would never dream of taking advantage of such a sweet thing as yourself. I am a gentleman!” he proclaims, all gun but no smoking barrel.

“You’re talking out of your ass, Eds” you’re in stitches, a saccharine candy-coated chortle that knocks the wind from the space between your ribs, comedic horror plastered all over his face.

Then you’re pulling him in by the collar before he can utter another word.

now it’s time for me to read the whole freaking masterlist!!! 🫶🏻 let me know if you enjoyed!

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x female reader #writing challenge #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic

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engeorged · 5 months

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Santa’s Otto

This is a sequel to Obi's Place and a prequel to Aster's Maze.

It’s been a while since I last posted, and a fair bit has happened with me and Aster, but that’s something that’s still developing. Being in a relationship with a magical being is not something that’s been mapped, outside of Greek fables, so we are still finding our way with it. Suffice to say we are both very happy and very together. Both of us have grown quite a bit. Physically, mentally and spiritually shall we say. (And by that I mean quite a lot more physically than the other two). But I think that that's a story for another time. I want it to be mine for a little longer.

Anyway, as Christmas is coming up, I thought I would tell you about an encounter I had, just a few months before meeting Aster. As it turned out, it wasn't actually me meeting a fae, but it definitely gave me some confirmation, and I think some of you will really enjoy this story! It’s about the time I met Santa in Germany. Yes, I know how that sounds, but you’re going to have to bear with me.

I’d headed to Europe a few months earlier and was working my way through some possible sightings. I hadn’t seen or met another being like Obi yet, but I’d definitely picked up some promising clues. A few things which I thought were legit, had led me to northern Germany where I immediately hit a dead end. German Christmas’ are some of the best in the world so I decided to stay a few weeks and have a break from the search. I’d been enjoying the sights of some famous local castle, and was feeling a bit hungry so I popped into a medium sized shopping mall I’d seen earlier and headed in. It was pretty quiet, which was strange considering it was the Saturday before Christmas but as I was walking through looking for something to eat, my eye was drawn to an incredibly hot man doing some maintenance work. He was dressed in an overall but it was open all the way down to his waist, revealing an incredibly toned physique. His very worked on, defined abs were covered in a delightful amount of belly fur all the way up to his thick neck and he was very much my type. I paused for a moment to drink him in and watched as he heaved some large boxes as if they were nothing. He was maybe an inch taller than me with broad shoulders and a thick head of dark messy hair with a fade at the sides. His beautifully pale European skin along with his darker hair and smattering of freckles was very striking. His face was covered in just the right amount of stubble to make him look rugged but not scruffy. But the crowning glory was his eyes! They were a vibrant pale blue that practically shone out from his face. As he turned and bent down to pick up the next box, I was surprised that his rounded meaty ass didn’t burst out of those overalls. They were unfortunately doing a good job at holding back all that muscle. I shook off my horny reverie and made a note to come back round after lunch to see if he was still there. Following my nose, I headed in the direction of food and found a little pop-up Christmas food court. I indulged in a few thick sausages and some delightful potato and apple cakes which were not bad at all. I took another couple of sausages to go and headed back the way I’d come, hoping to catch the hot maintenance guy again.

I hung around near where I first saw him for a good twenty minutes before I heard a commotion a bit further down. I walked over to where the sound was coming from and saw the festive grotto. Santa had arrived for the Christmas display. Kids were clamouring round excitedly and as I watched I saw Santa make his way through the crowds. I was yet again surprised to see that this was not your average sad old failed actor, living out his last working years as the big red fat man for a few euros an hour. This guy was young and vibrant. His broad shoulders were straining the limits of the outfit, with the white fur trim (probably real, this is Europe after all!) curving round and showing off the enormous belly. At first I assumed it was padded but it definitely caught my eye. The guy was so clearly stacked that the belly looked almost comical. It was almost perfectly round and stuck out a good foot and a half from this guy's toned body. As I watched him moving around I started noticing that the belly wasn’t squishy like a pillow would have been. It had a certain heft to it that I was very familiar with. I moved forward to get a better look and saw a kid, who wasn’t paying attention, get under his feet, tripping him up. He fell backwards onto a small elf house and levelled it. As he fell, his red coat came undone and I got a good glimpse of the huge round furry belly that was contained underneath. It was a thing of beauty, rounded and perfectly formed. Covered in dark thick hair with a small and neat belly button. He quickly pulled himself up and closed the coat, laughing it off. As he adjusted his fake white beard I caught a glimpse of his piercing pale blue eyes. I’d seen them before. Was the maintenance guy? What the fuck? I’d seen him an hour before and he was practically an underwear model. Either he’d got a Hollywood level makeup and prosthetic artist hidden round the back or there was something fishy going on.

My mind was racing. If that belly was real, it had to have grown in less than an hour? Who was he? Was this guy somehow a Fae? A crazy thought passed through my mind, was this actually Santa? I know I’d chased round the world for less weird ideas but the idea that Santa might have been real, was still a bit out there, even for me. Also, more importantly, did I have a crush on Santa?

I waited around till his shift ended. I couldn’t keep my eyes off this guy's belly. It was incredible. There was no flab or excess blubber, it looked like a solid mass of muscle over a huge sphere of gut. Well, like I was after Obi! I couldn’t lose this guy. This was the closest I’d come to answers in months. It was fascinating to watch him in action, the kids were captivated by him, and so were the parents. I couldn’t help but notice that he paid a fair bit of attention to some of the more hot dads, often touching them on the arm as he laughed at their bad jokes.

A few hours later, I saw him waving goodbye to the children before disappearing behind the grotto. I followed him and waited till he was alone. I approached him quietly so he didn’t have time to bolt and tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped out of his skin and span round, yet again revealing his massive ball belly as his coat flapped open. I introduced myself and told him I’d enjoyed his performance. Fortunately, he spoke very good English and understood me. He cautiously introduced himself as Otto and shook my hand. He took his beard off and I saw his face up close. It was so odd to see such a handsome and chiselled face sporting such a huge gut but there they both were. I didn’t really know where to go from there so I simply came out with it. I saw him an hour earlier and he had no belly. Now here he was with a 150 lbs beer gut. What was the deal? Was magic involved?

He stared at me for a little while, clearly weighing up what to say. I wasn’t sure if he was gonna bolt so I got myself ready for a chase, but suddenly he burst out with a hearty laugh and pulled me in for a hug. His belly pressing against me hit home how real it was. Our bellies pushed against each other with a satisfying thunk. As he pulled back he put his hands on either side of my belly and gave me a squeeze. As you know I’m not skinny myself, a few months of trying to eat myself into the same state as I was when Obi finished with me had added a few pounds to my bulk. Simply by touching me, Otto knew instantly that something magical had happened to me and asked me who I’d met. I told him about my encounter in the cafe and he nodded and smiled as if he understood. When I’d finished, he told me that my story was familiar and thanked me for telling it and turned to go. I reached out and grabbed his arm and asked him to tell me his story. He smiled and told me that it wasn’t going to be that simple.

We chatted for a while and worked out the terms of our agreement. As is always the way with these magical types there was always some sort of bargain or deal to be had. He agreed to answer 5 questions but to answer the questions I would have to eat something of his choosing. Now I’m not able to eat the amount I did when Obi was around but I’m still an accomplished eater. I agreed to the terms and we headed to the Christmas food market. He found us a delightful booth made from wood, with garlands of holly and pine branches covering the roof and headed off for my first meal. He returned with three of the sausages I’d already eaten. They were so good I was happy and I set about eating them whilst he sat there with a smile on his face enjoying a large European litre of beer. I thought about my first question and went with it. ‘Are you Santa?’ He scratched at his stubble and smiled a wry grin. ‘No’ he said smugly and lumbered off to get my next meal. I was pissed that my question wasn’t quite right. I needed to ask something more open ended. I was still thinking about what to ask when he returned with a thick crepe, stuffed with cheese and bacon and covered in more cheese. I grabbed a wooden set of cutlery and started eating.

As I finished, I began feeling a little full. Seven hot dogs, a pancake and some of those amazing apple potato fritters were heavy and not insignificant. I leant back and gave my belly a rub whilst I formulated my question. I needed a question that would make him give me more information than yes or no. I needed to find out if he was human and if not what he was. It came to me. ‘When did you first find you could grow an instant belly?’ His blue eyes twinkled, clearly impressed by my question. Draining the last dregs of his beer he leant back to match my position and began.

‘I was just out of university and was back living with my parents. I’d decided by then that I wanted to do something practical and started training as an electrician. It was Christmas Eve and I’d been out with my friends and came home pretty drunk and I crashed. Now I was pretty into the gym at the time and I had a killer body. Well, I guess you'd have seen it if you caught me earlier? Anyway, I woke up Christmas morning with this thing pinning me down!’ He grabbed his belly and attempted to shake it but it didn’t really move.

‘I had no idea what had happened and if I’m honest I sort of assumed it was the beer from the previous night. I thought I’d had an allergic reaction or something. Anyway, I went to the hospital to get checked out and they were baffled. No one could explain what had happened to me. With no answers I headed back to the gym and started training. I had 160 lbs to lose and I wanted it gone quickly. I hadn’t lost my muscle mass and so training was relatively easy. It took me 10 months in total but I managed it and got back into shape. I was maybe 20 lbs more than when I got the gut but it was all muscle mass so I was very much back in shape. I thought it was all behind me and then a few months later I woke up on Christmas morning yet again looking like I was pregnant with triplets. No one could tell me what had happened and so it all started again. Five years that happened for. Five years.’

I waited for more but that was all he was giving me. I went to ask another question and he stopped me and headed off. So he wasn’t a magical being. Something had happened to him? And why did it always happen on Christmas Day? What was the link? He returned with a huge turkey sandwich, dripping with gravy and cranberry sauce, with a side of roast vegetables. Yet again I dove in, all the time formulating my next question. Something was not quite right here. How did he go from ballooning every Christmas Day to being able to do it seemingly at will, in an hour? I was missing something here? I had three questions left and I didn’t want to waste one of them. I finished the sandwich (best one I’ve ever had by the way) and posed my next question. ‘Did you find out why this happened to you?’ He smiled again and nodded. I instantly regretted my wording. I’d given him a yes or no question again. He paused and offered me a lifeline. ‘Ask me about him?’ He pointed at the mural painted on the ceiling above us of a jolly Santa riding his sleigh across the sky.

That was all he was willing to give me and he left me to work on my fourth question. I needed to ask something about Father Christmas and how he was involved. So Father Christmas was real? My mind raced as I tried to get comfier in my chair. I was feeling the bloat now. The cheese in that pancake was sitting very heavily on my stomach. Otto returned with a bowl of steaming Christmas pudding. He’d brought me a whole one covered in custard that could have fed a family of six. I settled in to eat the fragrant dessert. I was struggling a bit now. It was a heavy thing to pack on top of what I’d already had. Otto was clearly enjoying watching me eat it though. He was on his fourth beer at this point and wasn’t really showing any signs of being drunk. Apparently Germans can really handle their beer.

Finishing the pudding I dropped my spoon into the bowl. ‘Alright.’ I said, belching deeply under my breath. ‘You’ve just told me Santa is part of this. If Santa is real then he’s obviously some sort of magical being or fae. Here’s my question.’ I reached over and put my hand on the top of his massive belly shelf and patted it. ‘How does Santa give you this belly every Christmas Day?’

‘Now we’re getting somewhere!’ Otto added. He drained his beer again and I swore under my fingers I could feel his belly swelling a little bit more. ‘After year five of doctors and experts not knowing why I gained nearly 200 lbs every year, I started getting desperate. I did some research online and put some feelers out there. I wasn’t expecting to find the answers I found! Turns out there are loads of guys like me around the world and we all have several things in common. All of us are over 6 feet tall, and all of us are pretty into fitness or sports. Big solid strapping men. Not one of them knew what was happening to us. That was until I found a guy in Norway who has a theory. He told me this crazy story. He’d heard rumours of this happening for hundreds of years. There were some Norwegian folk tales of trolls who would trick mortal men into being their ‘Magebror’, literally translated as ‘belly brother’. The trolls would then go off and gorge themselves all night and the poor magebror would begin to get fatter and fatter until they would burst open. He thought that we were cursed by trolls and we should simply thank the gods we weren’t bursting open. Obviously I ignored him but the more research I did the more I found out that there were some truths in these myths. It wasn’t something he’d invented but a real fable that appeared in several different folk laws across Scandinavia. I got back in touch with him and he’d vanished, so I headed off to Norway to try and find him. It took me a while but eventually I did. And low and behold he was 6’6 and stacked but with a huge pot belly twice the size of mine. He told me he’d been investigating more and more and had uncovered the truth. It wasn’t trolls doing this to us, it was Father Christmas. I could have punched him in the face. I’d gone all this way only to find that the guy truly was mental. I didn’t even say goodbye. I headed straight back home, gave up the search and tried to lose the weight again before Christmas.’

‘Christmas Eve came and I couldn’t quite shake the idea that this guy had put in my head. I decided to sit up and see if I could stay awake to see what would happen. I nearly didn’t make it but as the clock struck midnight something changed in the house. I felt an electricity in the air and you can imagine my surprise when he landed with a thump in my fireplace. And he was not how I imagined him to look. In front of me was not a fat old man with a grey beard, but a total hunk. He was tall and muscled like I used to be. Clean shaved but with some incredible big dick energy. Like some sort of daddy stud. I don't quite remember fully but I think he did have some ram horns sprouting from his head but they might have been part of the costume? It was a lot anyway. He smiled as if he recognised me. We waited in silence for a few minutes. I was totally enthralled by how attractive he was. I almost didn’t want to ask my question. Eventually I managed to speak and asked why I was gaining weight every Christmas Day. He seemed all too pleased to tell me as he launched into the explanation. It was simple, he had a few billion homes to visit every year and in every country, there was a tradition to leave food out for him. He had to eat millions of cookies and mince pies and treats in just a few hours as he travelled. And so he used magic! He would choose a load of men, all who had the frame to handle the mass, and they would be his magebror. He’d learnt from the trolls how to do it. He would eat the food and they would get fat. I was simply one of a few hundred guys who would wake up with bellies packed full of treats every year so he could stay toned and handsome. And that's why I got fat every year!’

So it wasn’t just me that had encountered these guys. This was finally some proof that what happened to me in that diner was real! The relief for me was immense. I wasn’t going mad. My mind was pulled back to earth as Otto stood to get my final meal. I had one more question. The one thing I didn’t know was how he could do it at will. He’d obviously found a way to control how and when he bulked up. And the intimate question, could he teach me how to do it? He returned with the final meal. A huge ironic plate full of cookies. There were at least a dozen and they were big ones. He slapped them on the table next to a large jug of milk. Obediently and greedily I started eating them. Dipping them in the milk,I was determined to get through them. One by one I swallowed each one down. Adding to the knot of pressure in my already overpacked stomach. My belly was feeling every bite as it distended outwards. Finishing the cookies was tough but I still had a few litres of milk to chug. There was nothing for it but to go for it. Lifting the jug to my lips I poured the cool milk into my stuffed gut. It felt good and horrible at the same time. I could feel my belly actually swelling out and straining my taut T-shirt. As the last of the milk drained down my throat, I slammed the jug on the table. Out of breath I posed my final question. ‘How do you control it? How come you can make your belly swell out when you want it to? How can I do that?’

His eyes sparkled. ‘That was three questions!’ He laughed. He reached over and gave my belly a stroke. He was firm but it was the touch of someone who knew how to handle a distended gut. ‘You’ve done well though! I’ll answer them. When I caught Santa out that night, I was the first one. No one had tracked him down before and he was pleased with me. I don’t wanna kiss and tell but let’s just say I sat on Santa's lap and he gave me a gift! He gave me the same ability that he has. The weight of food he eats, I can manage myself. Meaning I can gain his weight at will, whenever I like. Then all I have to do to get rid of it is touch a guy like he does and he becomes my magebror! I’m not magic so it’s not quite as strong as his abilities are. My magebrors are only temporary and one offs.’

I was so stuffed I didn’t quite pick up on what he was saying but I nodded anyway. That explained why he was touching the hot dads in the queue. The idea of a load of guys walking up tomorrow morning a few pounds heavier was kinda hot. To be honest, I was just relieved that I wasn’t imagining things. He helped me up out of the booth and we walked back through the mall. We chatted a bit more about my experience and some of the leads I’d found. All the while I was painfully aware of how full I was. I couldn’t stop belching as we walked, the movement dislodging the gas. As I walked, I kept one hand on the top of my gut, rubbing my bloated belly to try and ease the pressure. I’d not felt this stuffed for a while and it felt good.

I walked him back to his truck and he jumped in. As he jumped up I realised he was back to his original toned and lean self. I pointed it out and he just smiled as he drove off. As I stood in the snow processing the information I’d just been given I was interrupted by a ping. I was confused until I realised my trousers had become loose. The ping was my top button from my jeans. I looked down to see my belly was twice the size as it was when I had finished eating. I realised that he’d touched me as he helped me out of the booth. I had become his magebror! My belly had to be close to the same size it was when Obi had his way with me. I smiled as I explored my swollen belly with my hands. Also, it wasn’t lost on me that I’d just had a conversation with someone who had fucked Santa.

#belly expansion #gainer fiction #gay gainer #stuffing #belly fiction #gainer stories #male gaining #stuffing art #gainer story #gainer artwork

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thesandsofelsweyr · 11 months

Note

for the nsfw headcanon, can I request for Jason

L = Location

S = Stamina

T = Toy

X = X-Ray

from Headcanon Game - A to Z (NSFW)

⚠️ cw: smut (⚤)

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Pre-Batman: Arkham Knight Jay:

Jay's super self-conscious of his many, many scars. He's definitely not into fucking in public. He won't even take off his clothes in private unless you're blindfolded or the lights are out 😞

But once you showed up at one of his safehouses dressed in his militia's fatigues, your hair tucked beneath a red beret with his Arkham Knight insignia stitched on it. One glance at you wearing his mark turned him feral, his cock straining against the zipper of his cargo pants. He raked off the top of the workbench where he'd had one of his spare helmets splayed open, scattering circuit boards, screws, bolts, nuts, spools of solder wire, tools, sketchpads to the floor in a chaotic clatter, before shoving you down on your back, hooking his fingers into the waistbands of your pants and panties, then tearing them off your hips and legs and ankles like a kid on Christmas morning. Wrapping his massive arms around your thighs, manhandling you like a sex doll, he dragged you down on his fat cock, slamming inside you to the hilt in one blunt thrust, stabbing so deep you felt like he was splitting you in two. You screamed… in misery… in ecstasy… while he fucked you at a punishing pace, grunting and growling like a beast savaging his prey, like he could fuck away all of the pain, all of the blackness, all of the scars, all of the laughter. You wanted him to stop, to never stop. You wanted him to consume you, to destroy you, to leave your pussy raw and aching for the rest of the week, the month, the year, the rest of your life. It was rough, violent, carnal, bestial, and magnificent. And by the end he knew the entire complex heard you screaming his name.

Post-Batman Arkham Knight Jay:

When Jay's terrorizing Gotham as Red Hood, he's started to heal. He's started to accept that his scars—both mental and physical—don't define him, that they're proof he survived the worst that Gotham's gravity could thrust onto him. He still prefers to fuck in the privacy of his safehouses or your place, but he won't deny that he enjoyed himself immensely that one time you convinced Red Hood to bend you over the Batmobile and fuck you senseless.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Jay's your little Energizer bunny... he keeps going and going and going... 😁 It's partly due to his trauma that it takes him longer to cum than other guys, but you and your multiple orgasms certainly aren't complaining.

Once he finishes though, he's done for a while. He sometimes struggles with excruciating orgasm headaches (a side effect of Joker's bullet grazing his skull) that leave him weak and exhausted. Again, you aren't complaining since you get to snuggle with your big muscly teddy bear, stretching him out on the bed, cradling his head in your lap, combing your fingers through his soft black hair, massaging his broad shoulders, placing tender kisses on his crown, until he drifts off into the comfortable peace of your arms: warm, safe, needed, loved 💕

(A/N: I know AK: Genesis shows Joker shooting him in the chest, but I stick with BAK: Annual's explanation. If you want to know my reasoning just ask 😉)

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

You're the one with the toybox. Jay's not interested in using them himself (the Clown had a toybox of his own, after all) but he's more than willing to play with you. He loves to watch your toes curl and back arch, to see you squirm, hear you whimper and whine while he forces orgasm after orgasm on you with your rose (N S F W link).

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Pictures you say? Let's see here... *consults Dropbox folder full of naughty Jay fanart* (The following links are N S F W!!)

My FAVE by JustTheMeatTM 🤩

Honorable Mentions: by goblinromp, by phaustok, by cr0ques 🤤

He's a big boy: at least 7 inches erect and thiccc 😋

(Thank you anon for giving me an excuse to go rewatch one of my fave pornos for inspo 😂)

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f4irycafe · 2 years

Text

⤷ summary:" i'm not scared of lions and tigers and bears but i'm scared of loving you" - jazmine sullivan ♡

⤷ characters: eren jaeger

⤷ content warnings: black!coded reader, college au, drug use (marijuana), reader had attachment/trust issues, closed off reader, naked bodies?

⤷ wc: 745

⤷ notes: i kinda hate this but oh well :(

your heart was no longer yours, for it was currently resting in the hands of a tall green-eyed boy who seemed rather fond of it. it was his, has been for a very long time, even if you would have wished not to admit it. everytime you thought of stealing it back for yourself, he would do something so painfully good that you just told yourself, "one more week."

but one week had turned into two, three, then before you knew it two months had passed.

"and then this dicky ass kid in my 3 p.m - you're not even listening are you?" eren asked, looking over at you.

you were. you had just...gotten lost in him for a little bit. you hummed sweetly, continuing to run your nails through his hair. nails that he had recently paid for you to get done. he let his eyes grow droopy, leaning his head against your shoulder.

you raised the joint to your lips, letting it fill your lungs until you blew it out the open window. it was a rainy, lazy day in bed. wake up, light up, fuck, repeat. you couldn't even remember the last time you ate. it was just him, all day. you had stopped bothering to get back into clothes rounds ago, content to feel free and at peace with each other.

"gimmie," eren whispered as he lowered his head to your hands. you pressed the joint to his lips as he took it from you, blowing smoke out the window just as you had.

"you gotta stop doing that." he said after a bit.

"doing what?"

"zoning out on my face when i'm talking to you." you clenched your jaw in an effort not to let it drop to the ground.

"i do not -"

"it's okay. i'd stare at me all day too."

"you're stupid," you said after a few seconds of silence, snatching the joint back into your hands as you pouted.

"for real tho, wassup with that."

"what? i can't stare at you"

"you can, just not in a way you do." this boy was infuriating.

"and how, exactly do i stare to you mr. jaeger."

"you stare at me like you love me." he had taken the blunt back and anxiously hit it, turning his head after he spoke, too much of a coward to see the look on your face.

boys sucked. men sucked. dating sucked. but not eren. eren was sweet, eren asked if he could kiss you, eren bought flowers for your mother, eren pushes you to be better. he does all the right things, and when he doesn't he apologizes in the right way. he fucked you until you saw stars and ascended to higher dimensions, and he held you when you came down from those heavenly highs.

eren loved you.

and you knew that, of course you knew it. which was what made you mad. you kept giving him subtle opportunities to leave, unveiling your personality one wall at a time. and he just kept coming and coming, crashing through them all until he only had one left to conquer. he was like a little puppy, following you around wagging that big fat tail of his. sometimes when he got excited, you swore it wiggled.

and you loved eren. you loved him in a way that scared you because you'd never experienced that kind of love before. it felt like waves crashing all at once in your body, pulling you further down until his soul had you just where it wanted you.

you held his heart just as delicately as he did yours.

you didn't throw around the word casually. when you said it, you said it which each muscle in your body, each cell. and you were scared that if you took that step, said those three words, let it all out, that something bad would happen.

but that wouldn't happen with eren. he was the protector of your heart, and there wasn't much he wouldn't do to keep it safe.

"i do." you said, allowing your battling thought to quiet.

"you do what?" he asked, suddenly closr to you than he had been a second ago.

"i do lo-hmph," you paused, the words literally painful in your mouth. he laughed and pulled away from his face. shit head.

"i do love you, eren." he smiled, connecting your lips briefly, his hand coming up to massage your throat gently.

"i know you do angel," he said. "wanted to hear you say it for me, just once."

elles ramblings: i feel like i didn't match the vibe the way i wanted to. so maybe I'll do a part 2? or just a different version?

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ripeteeth · 10 months

Text

fragments: 01 (wangxian)

[I'm clearing out my incomplete wips and posting fragments that might stand alone as a bit of an amnesty of old projects. This is the first of that series.]

“He was important to you,” his brother says, and Lan Wangji considers the trouble of language. Is, he thinks, not was. There is no end limit to love. Wei Wuxian may not exist in the world, but Lan Wangji still loves him, and someday, when he himself is gone, his love will still be true. It is a fundamental rule of the world, just as gravity keeps his feet on the ground.

There are moments when he forgets: when a dark figure passes through a crowd, at the first notes of a flute, at the flash of laughter bright as a forest fire. Each time, his breath stops, and his knuckles whiten as he forms a fist, digging the half-moons of his nails into his palms, reminding himself of this break between desire and truth: Wei Wuxian had died in the Burial Mounds and is no longer here.

Some griefs are deeper than others. This one cuts like a fresh lash each time.

He wakes each morning at five, his breath shallow. Sometimes he dreams of Wei Wuxian, sometimes he does not. When he sleeps deeply, he wakes briefly uncertain which reality is the truth. Did he wake from a dream of this loss? Each morning, he presses his palm against his own chest, feeling the ridges of the Wen brand, and knows that no, the proof is borne on his skin. In no world with Wei Wuxian did they share this. He likes the feeling of it now, the way the scar tissue on his chest and back bears proof of his devotion.

(He remembers a boy, age seventeen, caught in a cave and laughing at his own fresh branding. A man should get scars for love, Wei Wuxian had said, dark eyes glinting. Now she’ll never forget me. He wonders if, wherever Wei Wuxian is now, if he has forgotten him.)

Habits prop up the days. When he passes a shop selling jars of Emperor’s Smile, he cannot resist buying one. Each time, for a few moments, he might pretend that he is buying it for Wei Wuxian. When he pries up the floorboard, concealing the jars within, he might imagine that someday the other man might be here, filling the room with hot laughter. You thought of me? Wei Wuxian would say, and Lan Wangji would feel warm.

No one comes. Sometimes he pries up the floorboard and stares at the jars, little pieces of Wei Wuxian that he might have. Like a magpie, he steals pieces. The brand, the wine, robes he orders in black and red. As if Wei Wuxian were a lover away for a week, a month, a year, and just waiting to return home.

[rated e (explicit) below the cut]

He has never known Wei Wuxian’s touch as a lover. (Once, he had fumbled and pressed his mouth to the other man’s, but that was taken. Wei Wuxian had not reached back, had not kissed back.)

His nightly habits have not changed since he was seventeen. Retiring to his rooms, he slips the robes from his body like a peel from a fruit. Inside, he’s ripe already. He bathes, efficiently and with purpose. It’s only once he is alone, settled into bed, concealed beneath blankets, that he allows one hand to wander south between his thighs. He is thirty now and has long since ceased trying to fight his own mind. What he wants is impossible, except in the corners of his imagination, so he fucks his own fist, teeth clenched, imagining that this skin is Wei Wuxian’s golden own, and that this slick is his beloved’s. Some information is known. Again, nightly, he remembers how Wei Wuxian had looked, blindfolded and leaning against a tree, how the sinew and muscle of his chest had pressed into Lan Wangji’s own. His lips had been wet and soft and when Lan Wangji had bitten in, he had moaned and his hips had stuttered, as if he might have wanted it.

So he imagines this again. Wei Wuxian, disheveled, pressed sharply into a tree or a wall, rutting against Lan Wangji’s thigh, his hair wild and dark, like treebranches in winter. He would take that cock in hand, redder and fat with blood, (like his own, now. In his mind, his cock is both his own and not his own. In his mind, his hands are both his own and Wei Wuxian’s.) and stroke them together until Wei Wuxian would shudder and break apart, all for him, here in the palm of his hand.

He comes, spilling across his own sword-rough palm. His eyes squeezed shut, his breathing is his own and not his own. Again, as he has done each and every night, he drags his come-covered hand out from beneath the sheets. Self-abuse is forbidden in Cloud Recesses, and there is nowhere to wipe this, nowhere to wash it off, without potentially being discovered, so he drags his palm across his tongue, swallowing the spill of himself down.

The taste is his own, and not his own.

He sleeps alone. This is not new. It never has been.

#wangxian #lan wangji #teeth fragments #ficlets #mdzs #cql #the untamed

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tparker48 · 1 year

Text

Request for Tinytoy0

The night would still be young as the party continued in the lounging area. Bailey sitting at the bar as the music filled his ears. Letting it draw his attention as he took a swig from his drink. But drew elsewhere when a very lean guy sat next to him.

"Give me two glasses" they said to the bartender. Watching them walk away before looked towards Bailey. "What's up?" He said to him.

"Hey." Bailey responded.

"Never seen you around here, you must be new"

"Well, only partially new, been here for about a week. Though still getting my bearings" Bailey responded, taking another swig of his drink.

"I see, I see" the guy responded, the bartender arriving back with his drinks. Placing the two glasses in front of him, but moved the other slightly to the side. Hovering his hand over it before moving it over to Bailey. "Here, one on me." He offered.

Bailey was cautious at first as he looked at the glass, unsure to take it as held his in his hand. But shrugged the thought aside, it couldn't help to be courteous right? drinking the remaining liquid, he grabbed the extra one. "thanks." He said in response, toasting the cup to him before downing it in one go. But winced as he slammed it down. "God that stings."

"Like it, it's got my own special taste for it."

"When you certainly got your own taste, Are you trying to kill me?"

"Heavens no! Well at least not exactly. Just showing you a little about what this town's drinks have to offer." He responded Bailey starting to get up from his seat, but the guy's hand stopped him as he held his arm softly. "Wait, I didnt mean to overstep. But, how about I make it up to you."

"Oh? And how would you do that?"

"Oh I can do that in many ways. Some physically" he leaned closer to Bailey "or sexually."

Bailey was taking off guard by the suggestion as he stepped back from them. The hand pulling him back as a hand laid onto his pants. Making his bulge flex in its state, but clenched it in rage before placing a hand on their shoulder. "Why you litt-"

"Its a simple offer, you don't have to take it. However, I don't think you'll want to be so pent up. There are many sharks who like to take control that fire of yours."

"Control me? Fat chance, I'm a top. Im not one to ache in the knees like these other pups."

"Oh yeah? Well then.." The guy pressed closer "show me."

"Alright, I will!"

**********************************************

A couple of minutes later, Bailey and his acquaintance made their way to the back room of the hotel. Stopping at a changing room as the two entered inside. Switching the lock to occupied to stray away any lookers.

"Argh!" The guy huffed, tossed over to the cushioned sofa as Bailey approached. "So strong."

"So you want me to show you what I can do? Then I hope that ass of yours is ready to use crutches" stepping forward, Bailey unfastened his pants hastenly as he threw his belt to the side. Throwing down his pants before aligning his cock forward. Ripping of theirs as he hoisted his jeans down to his ankles. But felt a little dizzy as he as he held his head in comfort. "Rrrngh.."

"Something the matter? Don't tell me your getting cold feet."

"Like hell I am!" Bailey barked, grabbing onto their thighs before gripping along his asscheeks. Spreading them to reveal his anus in the center. Sticking his ccok head against it as it pressed firmly into the orifice. Inserting it. He began to slowly gring into His waist. Sinking his cock into his hole as it began to widen. Letting it loosen a bit more before he pulled the shaft up to the tip. "You're gonna regret getting me pumped up. You-" As Bailey was about to speak, a pulse moved through his body as his body raced to the floor. The world around zooming upwards before being overshadowed by misty skin. "What the-" he muffled, beginning to fight against it as it hugged at his sides. The blubbery flesh smothering his words before the mounds squeezed together.

"Well that was easy, took a little bit longer than expected though.." the guy announced, feeling Bailey rub between lower part of his asscheeks. Getting up, he dusted himself off before stood up from the sofa.

"Mmm..mmph!" Bailey muffeled more, finally managing to pierce through the thick muscle muscle. "Gah-hah! What's going on. Why am I small!" He yelled, Struggling between the mounds as they bounce back from from his pushes. The earthy scent filling his nose as the hole underneath puckered at his feet. But was shocked when a pair of hands reached down from the sides of the giant ass. Prying them apart as he landed ontop of the sofa. Looking up to the half naked dude as he turned around to see him. " Wait a second..That drink you gave me..you drugged me!"

"I wouldn't exactly call it a drug..more of a potion."

"Potion?!"

"Now that the pleasantries are out the window, allow me to inteoduce myself. My name is Carlton, Dr. Carlton if you will. A scientist with a knack of messing with sizes. A pleasure to meet you."

"You're a scientist that messes with other people's sizes. You're sick in the head-grck!" A thumb pressed down on Bailey as it mushed him into the cushion.

"Mad, not sick. Not that it matters at this point. All of my greatest works are admired one way or another. As will you too after you partake in a few tests."

"Tests?" Bailey asked him, but received no response before a hand came down toward him. With little time to escape, he was hoisted up into a pinch as Carlton brought him to his waist. His free hand at his cock as he peeled back his foreskin. "hey! Hey! I didn't agree to be-mph!" Thrusted forward, his words were cut off as flesh raced towards him, the loose skin overlapping his body as he plunged into its embrace. Bumping into the pocket below, his face was smothered in sweat built up along the loose skin. Fingers beginning to prod at his legs to burrow him deep, the flap closing over his feet as the cockhead against him sealed his way out. His kicks knocking into the backside of the head to get free. But were blocked and absorbed into its fluffy sides.

"They always seem to try to have a say in the matter. But doesn't matter once I got them." Carlton finally spoke, poking at the bulge underneath his foreskin watching it wobble in place before a lump stretched out from it. Putting his cock back into his underwear as he put back on his pants. Making his way out the change room before heading out to his car. A little sway added to his step with the additional company stashed underneath.

**********************************************

Making his way home, Carlton went into his room as he shut the door behind him. Pulling ooen a panel behind the door as he stepped inside. Leading him into a wide room, materials would be all over the place. Chemicals sat at the top of the shelf, some bubbling as fire torched into the flask. A computer resting along the table as it awaited to be used. But received no attention as Carlton walked towards the mats off in the distance. Drawing out his cock as he let his length droop off his pants.

"Grghgrgh! Mph! Mph!" Bailey's muffled voice echoed from within. The bulge bouncing up and around the skin as he felt a slight punch absorb into it.

"Calm down, calm down" Carlton said, unable to help himself from giggling from Bailey's efforts. Massaging over the lump to stimulate the flesh more. Beginning to grind the hood over his cockhead, before peeling it back slowly behind it. Stopping over the lump when arms emerged out from it. Slapping against tip as Bailey struggled to get free. "Hm hm" Carlton chuckled, rolling the foreskin back more to reveal the flesh inside.

"Mmph..nnn!..Gah" Bailey gasped, his head popping out from underneath the skin. His arms pushing at it to let the rest of him out. Plopping to the ground of the mat as he landed with a wet splat.

"Welcome to my lab my honorary lab rat. Make yourself at home."

"It's Bailey you jerk!" Bailey scorned, getting up from the damp spot on the floor. But struggled as the sticky surface from the foreskin stuck to him.

"Bailey.. right. Well Bailey, I hope you are ready for the test I have in stored. Your gonna be front and center for it all."

"Like hell I will! You tricked me into doing your sick offer, then you kinapped me, and now you want me to participate in your tests. No thank you!"

"Oh come now, I'm sure it wasn't that bad. You wanted to prove you're the top dog right? Well, you had your chance, but I wasn't quite convinced otherwise. Even before the shrinking. Besides, you look way more cuter than you were before. Like a new born ken doll brought to life." Carlton said.

Upon the response, Bailey foimd himself begin to fluster. His face becoming red as he quickly looked away. "I-I..I am not cute!"

"Sure you are.."Carlton added, taking off his shoes as he tossed them to the side. Leaving his socks on before stepping onto the mat. "but alas, I suppose all that barking you did before was all a bluff. Like rest of the littles puppies right?"

"You lousy-..No! Its not a bluff" Bailey retorted, stepping closer to Carlton as he stopped at his feet. "I am a top and nothing will change that! And if I have to have to get through you to get it, then I will!"

"Will you now? Is that a challenge?"

"You bet it is!"

"Heh." Lifting his foot, Carlton stepped over Bailey. Watching him wince down below before he moved further down the mat. Heading towards the far wall as he held onto a lever. "Alright Bailey, I'll bite." He agreed, flipping the lever as the room began to change. The walls spreading further apart as the mat began to extend. Traveling down the room as the equipment collected themselves into the walls. Stretching to the entrance ahead as a line drew over the floor.

"What the?" Bailey puzzled.

"Let's test that bite of yours top dog. If you can get across this mat and reach the door without me stomping you, I'll consider changing you back. But if I catch you.." He clicked on a button, a ray rising up from the table behind him. "Then I'm shrinking you more and will continue my tests. Do we have a deal?"

Bailey was hesitant as he looked at the ray. Choking on his words before he finally gave his answer. "Deal!"

"Then it's settled then.." Carlton stepped forward, raising his foot towards Bailey. "Let me be the first to start us off!"

"Ah crap!" Bailey yelled, leaping out the way before the foot crashed down. The mat turning from the impact as the wind carried him to the side. "That..was close." Bailey blurted to himself. But forced himself to focus as another foot lunged towards him. Instinctively rolling out the way as the heavy thud echoed next to him.

"Almost had you that time, you really are a nimble fellow." Carlton commented, raising his foot into the air. "But don't think I'll take it easy on you because of it!"

Bailey started to run as the foot crashed down. Hearing its boom echo behind him as he raced down the mat. Gazing at the door as the exit sign hovered above it. It seemed so far the path along the mat stretched out, But he had to make it there if he wanted to have his size back. Clenching his fists, he motivated himself to run faster. His feet kicking with all their might as they carried him along. But a foot cut their motion as a socked foot crashed in front of him. bumping into its side as he Looked up the leg to see another foot race toward him.

"Incoming!"

"Gah!" Bailey yelled again, hopping over the top of foot as he jumped a few inches ahead. The loud crash piercing the silence as he landed back on the mat. But couldn't catch his breath before he proceeded to waddle forward. The sounds of loud stomps echoing behind him. The line just within sight as he kicked his tired legs faster. "Almost there, almost there!"

"Wow you're quick one.." Carlton's voice boomed. A shadow casting overhead as he jumped ahead of Bailey. Crashing down in front of him before turning quickly. Lifting his foot up like a panel as he waited for him.

"No no no!" Bailey cursed, his feet tripping over themselves as he toppled forward. The foot in front of him lifting up higher as he planted against the heel. Bouncing to the floor as he laid there dazed. But refocused as the foot began to lower.

"Game." Carlton became to say, beginning to lower his foot.

"No."

"Set."

"No no no!"

**Thud** the foot came down as Bailey started to run. Fumbling to get up to his legs before the toes arched overhead. "Match." Carlton finally finished. Placing weight on his foot, he leaned into his knee. Looking at the flailing arms sticking out from underneath the fabric. "Ooh so close Bailey, you almost had it for a second there."

"Bastard..you cheated. Your size is bigger than me.."

"And yet, you still decided to challenge me." Carlton responded. ""And lost. Which means" He lifted his foot up a bit before pressing a button. The ray beginning to spark as its nozzle extended towards them. Lowering as it aimed at Bailey underneath. "Time to collect that size of yours."

"Wait! No, No noo!"

**zap!**

**********************************************

After being shrunk down, Carlton continued with the rest of his tests he had planned for Bailey. Sitting along the couch as he watched Tv, a couple of fruit snacks in a bowl next to him. A string laced to the side of it, Bailey was tied on the other end. Pouting in his shrunken state as he gazed at the window. Stressed at the new size he missed seeing the clear sky outdoors. But even that was taken away as the wooden edge blocked his view. But looked back when a tug came along the string.

"Hey little bud, it's snack time again" Carlton announced. Bailey shuttering at his words before he turned toward the bowl. Picking one as he slumped his way towards the side of the couch. Carlton leaning down next to it as he smiled at Bailey.

"Aaah" he opened his mouth as he laid his tongue out like a welcome mat.

Bailey shuttered again the maw that aimed toward him. The hot breath washing over him as the old snacks he ate still remained. Making him fan at the air to comfort his nose.

"Coma un!" Carlton teased, flicking his tongue out to Bailey.

"Nrrgh." Bailey groaned, tossing the fruit snack onto the tongue. Its surface quickly coated with saliva left on it before it was flicked towards his gullet. The back of the tongue lifting up as the fruit snack disappeared. A light gulp signaling its descent before the tongue lowered down. A satisfying sigh coming from Carlton as his breath washed over him again.

Bailey fanned the air to comfort his nose again, but wasn't able to ease it before the mouth opened again.

"Another one" Carlton said. Bailey proceeding to get another as he held in his arms, tossing it inside as it bounced on the tongue. But muscle would lay flat as the fruit snack rolled back out. Landing at his feet before it retracted. "Uh-uh, no tossing. I want you to put it inside." Carlton said.

Bailey was confounded as he looked up at the giant scientist, looking at the fruit snack before he looked at his mouth. The throat dancing from its entrance as the uvula above swayed in place. "There is no way im doing that!" He thought himself. Taking a step back, but was pushed forward when a hand reached behind him.

"Now now, don't get cold feet. You're way too adorable just stand there like a deer in headlights. Buut if you want a little nudge.." carlton pushed his hand closer "I'm much more happy to-"

Bailey fanned at the hand behind him, swatting at the thick digits before moving ahead.

"hehe, alright then top dog.." Carlton replied, opening his mouth once more as he flicked the tip of his tongue imward. "Ruh hea" he pointed a finger inside.

Bailey wimced again as the maw opened toward him, but forced himself to shake it off as he carried the fruit snack in his hand. Moving closer to Carlton, he stepped upon the tongue. His body quaking from its sponge like surface as he tried to get his balance But they seemed to not register as each step slipped off the tongue. Tripping him as he landed along its center. The bit sized gummy landing in front of him as it rolled down the fold.

"A lita ma!" Carlton jumbled through his words, waving his tongue around to motivate the shrunken tiny. Bailey finally managing to get up when he grabbed one of his molars. Hoisting himself up into the mouth. Picking up the fruit snack, but didn't like holding it as its sides were drenched in drool. Making him hurry faster as he waddled up the tongue's length. Leaning over the fleshy hill as the throat gaped open. The muscle clenching with anticipation as it awaited its treat. Then, with a final push, Bailey through the treat into the tube. The back of the tongue rising over his hand before the rest of the tongue pushed him into the cieling. The mouth soon closing as Carlton began to move from the outside.

"Mmm-mmm" Carlton hummed to himself. Swallowing the fruit snack he was fed, but kept his tongue in place as he pinned Bailey inside. Folding the sides around him like a taco as he pounded at its sides. Turning off the Tv, he sat along the couch for a bit and toyed with him. Curling his tongue around before letting up the pressure. Pushing him along the side of the mouth and glossed Bailey onto his right cheek. Pressing him into the fleshy pocket before moving him over to the other. It was like rubbing around a sucker the more he thought about it. Sucking the air inside with a swift inhale. Letting the drool inside inside mix with Bailey before draining it into his cavern. He enjoyed the action, pressing softly at the bulge in his cheek as it pressed back. Bit soon drew his attention towards the door when it opened suddenly.

"Aaaa!" A yawn pierced the room. A broad figure coming from behind the door, stretching between the frames. "Is it the afternoon already? Hardly thought I'd wake up so soon." He said, making his way into the rest of the room. Stopping near the couch as Carlton sat at the far end. "Was wondering where you ran off too Carlton. Fishing for studs again?"

"Mor o les Terry.." Carltin replied, continuing to swish his tongue around. A kick soon extending out from the cheek.

"More of less huh? And what's that in your mouth?"

Carlton tilted his head up a bit before he opened his lips. Lifting his head up to the light above as it shined inside his clear white teeth that glistened in place. And in the center, Bailey as he was entangled underneath the sides of the tongue. But just as he fumbled to get to his knees, Carlton closed his mouth shortly after.

"I see, you went to the bar again." Terry said, shaking his head as he approached. "Wasn't that last one enough for you? Barley had enough time to play with them before you lost them."

Carlton swirled his mouth around as he adjusted himself along the couch. Holding his hand out in front of him before he spat out Bailey. "It wasn't that long. I just needed a little more time with them. It's not my fault that window was open now was it Mr. spring cleaner?"

"I'll spring clean your ass if you test me"

"Oh ho, will you now? With a lip like that you just might end up as my lab rat" Carlton responded, but was caught off guard when. They Jumped ontop of him.

"And if I do, im gonna make sure to blow you til the cows come home" he responded. The two of the looked at each other for a split moment as they gazed into each others eyes. But soon turned into a light kiss as the two locked their lips gently.

"God I love it when you say that" he said.

"You and me both ya stud" Carlton replied.

"So who's the squirt?" they replied.

"A little pick up I ran into on the way out the bar. Guy seemed pretty cute enough on the outside, so I decided to take them with me."

"Heh, you and your selected favorites. They're not teddy bears"

"True, but they sure act like one" Carlton responded. Holding up Bailey as he struggled in his palm. Rolling him down to his fingers before he dangled in mid air. "Besides, you think of them as side toys to get you off."

"Because they are. And they get you hard too"

"Pff, no they don't"

"Uh-huh. Well then how about I prove it to you, the one who blows first gets to cook breakfast."

"Breakfast? You cooking? Hah, now that I would love to see. Alright you're on!" Cartlon responded, the two of them making their way to the couch. Sitting down next to each as they pulled down their pants. Exposing their thick bulges, they each flexed with anticipation. Carlton soon holding up Bailey as he presented him to his boyfriend. "You're gonna have a part in our fun too bud." He announced. Holding him between the two of them.

Bailey fanned at the air as he yelled at the top of his lungs. Refusing to partake in their little activity as he flailed around. But his voice only came as squeaks to the two giants.

"Well he's certainly a fiesty one, I like that."

"you'll find he's got quite the kick. Now let's get down to the rules. We have a timer here that'll count how long it takes for one of us to get hard. The one with highest time, shall be the winner. Deal?"

"It's a deal. A feasible feat to say the least. Heh, for me." Terry said proudly.

"Well then hot stuff, you'll go first"

"Gladly" Terry said, plucking Bailey from his hands into his. Lowering him down to his crotch, he opened the waistband out a bit past his inner thigh. Letting his cock breath for a moment before hovering Bailey above it.

Bailey couldn't help but flail more in disagreement. Yelling at the tip of his lungs for their attention. Hoping they would reconsider as he caught a glimpse of the glistening skin down below him. But he received no response before the fingers around him dropped him inside. The waist band racing back to Terry as it snapped back in place. The fabric surrounding it wrapped back over his thick arch of the bulge inside. Bailey's outline on top of it as he spread eagled along the length of his shaft.

As his underwear snapped in place, Terry crossed his arms together. Letting his bulge do the work, he let it flex slowly on its own. Feeling Bailey wiggled around inside as the lump lifted into the fabric. "See? Nothing to it." He said proudly.

"Just wait til the time starts" Carlton replied, pressing the button on his phone. The time beginning to race as it began to climb. "And further more, just having him on your cock is child's play of pleasure. How about you put your money where your mouth is" Leaning down on Terry's hips, he grabbed at his crotch with his whole hand. Scrunching and turning it in place to soften up the surface. Moving Bailey along with it as he moved his fingers along his lump. Rotating around the shaft before pressing it into a pocket. Finishing, he retracted his hand, looking at the crotch for any sign of the little guy. But found nothing but light shift beneath the roundness of his balls. "There."

"Nnng! Alright..you called my bluff there" Terry admitted.

"Can't let you weasel out this bet." Carlton taunted, letting the timer tick away as he observed his boyfriend's process.

Meanwhile, Bailey would be in complete disarray within the confines of his prison. Skin pressed everywhere around him as its warm surface stick and peeled of of his body. The thick muscle of the cock at the top of his head, as it laid its weight into him. And the bulky balls beneath his feet, cushioning against him as they disrupted his balance along them. Refusing to give room as they shifting and morphed around his body. the two mushing together as Bailey wrestled with bits of pubic hairs that wrapped along his legs. "How is it that I'm the one to get into these scenarios!" Bailey cursed, Streching into the crotch to ease his legs. But was forced to crouch back as the weight increased. A grunt echoing from the outside, but couldn't see much past the dark fabric. "dang it, let me out already!" He yelled again, pushing into the cock once more to get there attention.

"Mmm..little guy's really putting some effort. Not bad." Terry respomded, watching below as bulges danced around his crotch. His cock beginning to stiffen as its outline slowly began to grow

"look's like its not the only thing putting in work. Is that pre I see?" Carlton pointed out to his underwear. A light wet stain trailing along the tip. "Time up!" He happily announced.

"What? No fair! We didn't say anything about signs!"

"The key word was "get hard". That means anything goes. But hey, you lasted 10 seconds at least. Congrats." Carlton teased, sticking his tongue out for a momemt, but stopped when Terry tackled into him.

"Is that so? Well then how about we even the playing field..." Terry announed.

There was bits of shuffling going on along the outside. The bulge beginning toss and turn, the cock above turning over to the left of Bailey's body. The balls moving themselves out from underneath as he backward into the cock underbelly. The pressure beginning to increase, and the space within becoming more cramped. Bailey wasn't having it, continuing to bat around at the walls.

The air inside getting musky as it made him and the skin around more humid. "Come on...let me out!" He yelled. Now resulting into bucking into the shaft. But only made it slouch more as it laid across his shoulder. The heavy pulse booming into his ear as its flexes pushed the side into his head. But just as he was about to hit it again, the fabric above opened.

Lowering down the cock like a curtain as the shaft sprang out from underneath. Bailey along with it as they landed against Terry's palm. "Ah..finally" He stressfully sighed, but soon widened his eyes as Carlton's crack presented himself to him. The smooth mounds jiggled to an abrupt halt before they started to lean back "oh no, oh no no no!" he started to panic. Beginning to wiggle around underneath the cock to get himself. Pushing against the foreskin that drooped over it as his hands slipped in and over surface. But to no avail.

"Hey, save that energy" Terry said. Clenching his fist around his cock to Correct. But he still kept going as his arms pounded at the cockhead. Stimulating the organ as it slowly began to grow. "Fine.." He finally conceded, pinching at Bailey's sides, lifting him up to the front of his cock.

Aligning him near the slit before proceeding push him into the lips. but were halted as the little guy held against the rim of the hole. Refusing to go inside as the slit pouted between his hands. But wasn't long before he gave way, stuffing Bailey's torso deep inside the hole. Leaving only his legs sticking out as he placed a thumb over him. "Its already hard as it to contain your wiggling, but I suppose that will do." He replied, corkscrewing his waist behind the lips to secure him.

"Sounds like my lab rat's giving you trouble." Carlton responded.

"And you're in even more trouble than he is.." He remarked, but grinned as he gripped at his cheeks. Prying them apart to reveal his tight hole in the middle"But don't worry, I'll fix that.."

"Ah great" Bailey cursed. "This is the last place I wanted to be! Grch..it's so sticky in here!" He pushed into the tube's walls to push himself out of the lips embrace, his hips bucking against as the lips to set him free. but to no avail, the slit held a tight grip on him. Clenching firmly as he slip deeper. The orifice puckering around his waist as it held him in place. He pounded at the walls to get Terry to release him. Listening to the Sound of them chatting behind the thick walls and churns that echoed from it. But vanished, the area soom beginning to move. Feeling pressure at his feet as he felt the lips tighten up to his ankles. Grinding soon filling the void as Terry began to grunt.

Outside, Terry commenced with his payback as he placed his cock inside Carlton. Lodging his shaft all the way to the base, he slowly began to move his hips in place. His light stride turning into a fast pace as his hips connected with his. "I hope you're ready." He said intimately, thrusting into him as he held his hands at his cheeks.

"Oh noo, Im starting to feel like I'm going to regret what I did" Carlton said playfully, leaning down along the couch as Terry pounded at his ass. A hand on his cheek as he focused on the feeling.

"We'll see if that mood changes when I fill you up" Terry retorted, grinding his body faster as his hips bounced against his rear. His body getting warm as his cock began to stiffen.

As the tension increased, Bailey was having trouble getting his balance. The grinds around him rocking his body up and down the tube. Dunking him into the pre that spilt inside as he became coated in its substance. "Peh!..mm..peh! God that's salty!" He pushed into the walls, spreading them with his hands as spat out droplets that touched his lips. But only barely before the walls began to harden. Forcing his hand to squish into him. The heat beginning to warm the shaft as the walls contracted closer. Hugging into his sides as their heavy pulse echoed into his ears once more. "Ah..come on" he gritted from his teeth. Prying at the walls with little space he had, but went nowhere as his hands slipped against the coated walls. Tucking against them as he was sandwiched between the walls. Forced to wriggle around as the pre began to collect inside the tube.

"mmm..it's getting a little loose back there" Carlton groaned, feeling Terry's cock slip in and out of his chamber. His hole wrapping the ring around his cock before widening out for the rest of its length.

"Good, because I'm hot and ready. And this little guy's making me harder" Terry grunted, feeling his shaft begin to swell as the fluid began to race. Bailey sinking deeper as his cock grew more tighter. Bucking his hips forward he locked hips with Carlton as his humps increased. Its light claps beginning to echo in the room as two got closer

As the grinding got faster, the walls contracted more as cum began to fillinto the urethra. Covering over Bailey's hands, it lubricated his hold on the walls as he started to slip up tube. The cum turning into wads as the sphincter above grew closer. "Grrgh! I don't know how much of this I can take!" Bailey gritted, holding on as best he could. the sphincter clenching and spilling more cum out from its lips. Refusing to find out what lied beyond it as he as he arched his fingers into between the tight folds of flesh. Receiving a moan from the outside before the walls drew him closer, the sphincter ahead now nipping at his hair. "I can't..hold on!" He struggled, doing his best to hold onto his grip. But grew tired, his limbs failing him as his energy loosened. Letting him slip deeper into the tube, the pucker beginning to gape to enter him inside. "No..No!" Bailey gritted, making eye contact with the sphincter. Watching his body inch closer as the hole blew salty air into his nostrils. Beginning to crown around his face as more cum expunged out from its depths. Pouring heavily into him as a puddle captivated over him. Climbing up his body as he was submerged in the seed. Forced to hold his breath, he was afraid he would as swam around. The walls keeping still despite his struggles, but soon found himself carried up the tube as they suddenly clenched. Racing towards the opening, the pink walls were replaced with white fluid. Carried off by the cum, Bailey fainted as its substance washed over him.

"Aaaah" The loud moan echoed in his ears, darkness soon taking over as his body disappeared.

**********************************************

Several hours have passed since Bailey blacked out. The image of Tim's cock still filling his mind as he patted away the walls. But seemed relentless as they went nowhere. "Mmm..nnn" As the walls continued to raced, he noticed them starting to fade into darkness. Patting at them once more, but the texture felt different. It was soft, warm even. And..fluffy? Coming to, he was snapped back to reality as he arched himself up. "Gah!" He gasped, wakening up from his slumber. Finding himself laying on a soft bed, the sound of sizzling lingering off in the distance. "Was that a..dream?" He muttered to himself, having a slight headache as he held a hand to his forehead. But looked up when a shadow shifted overhead. Carlton hovering above as he gazed at Bailey.

"Well well, look who's finally up." He announced. "Did you sleep well?" He asked Bailey, still groggy as he sat up in his bed.

"Thought we lost you in there. Would have been ashame if we lost another one" Terry responded. Grabbing his plate of eggs and bacon before he sat at the table. "Bottom here really wanted you inside him. I guess you twohave that in common.

"Oh come on, I wanted to see what his limit was. Besides, it seems you enjoyed it most than I did. Releasing your load into me and all."

"Serves you right for testing me.."Terry responded. Spooning in a couple of eggs into his mouth.

"Rrr...I don't have the energy to deal with these two right now.." Bailey grumbled. But looked up as Carlton stood closer.

"We still got lots more planned for you later. You left quite the impression on me. So as thanks, I've agreed to keep you for as long as possible. Catch up on a few test I have to run." Carlton said.

"Don't forget your sexual duties. You're not living here for free afterall." Terry chimed in.

"Yes yes, that too. They'll be plenty of time for that. But first.."Cartlon reached into the glass room. Making Bailey wince as he braced himself to be grabbed. But only the sound of clanking greeted him as he looked ahead. A very small plate resting near the bed as it towered a bit. "You need rest and energy before we go again. A lab rat can't function otherwise."

Bailey was confused a bit as he looked at the plate of eggs he was given. Hesitant at first to inch closer to it as he looked cautiously at Carlton. But received a light pat from his finger before the giant figure moved away. Leaving him to observe the plate of food as he inched closer. Taking a piece of the egg as he chewed on the end of it. It was slightly soggy as it was freshly made. Its texture soft and warm, but a little salty along the surface. But despite its salted taste, it seemed rather good as Bailey kept eating. "Hmm..maybe it won't be too bad staying like this.." He muttered to himself. Continuing to eat his food. Looking at the two above as they chatted throughout the day.

#cock vore #shrink #musk

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wolfsclothing6 · 1 year

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Buck looked at himself in the mirror as he adjusted his jacket. He was one sexy biker bear and he knew it. Sure, he had not always lookes like this. Just a week ago he used to be a straight-laced city councilman named Adam. He remembered going down to one of the seedy bars on the edge of town, trying to get it closed down since it attracted a lot of undesirables. Unfortunately for him, those undesirables decided to fight back. Back then, he was a man in his late thirties, hair just starting to thin with a bit of a punch from too many days in the office and not enough time in the gym. But the bikers in the bar saw something that they could use. When Adam attempted two evict the bar owner, a bunch of hirsuit men wearing leather pulled him aside. He thought they were going to beg or plead for the bar to stay open, but instead they all took turns blowing clouds of thick cigar smoke in his face. He began choking and coughing and breathing in their second-hand smoke.

As he did so, he felt a burning pain in his stomach. He watched in horror as his gut began growing. It went well past a beer belly into a full-blown gut. It ripped his shirt to shreds before coating itself with dark gray hair. He continued to stare as the fat seems to spread down into his thighs and up into his biceps, destroying the rest of his clothes. He watched as his chest started to sag, with man tits forming. He felt the smoke seep into his bones, and painfully felt himself growing shorter. He used to be rather tall, but now he was no more than five foot eight. He also felt a pain in his groin, and without looking could tell his cock and balls were shrinking. Sure, he had never been exceptional in that department, but now there was no way he could get above three inches even when hard, and his sack look like it had shriveled away to almost nothing.

Looking at his new body and horror, Adam had begged the men to help him. He did not want to look like this, some fat hairy old man, and he made a deal with them in order to undo the changes. Unfortunately for Adam, he did not know what price he would have to pay. The bikers took him back to the restrooms, and before he knew it both of his holes were filled with biker bear cock. The bikers spent the rest of the evening making sure that Adam was never without dick in his mouth or ass, each one grunting appreciatively has they pumped him full of their seed. With each load, Adam ended up a little more masculine. A lot of his fat turned into muscle, and he could feel his cock growing. It had a huge foreskin now, dangling about an inch longer than the head, and was almost as thick as it was long. His balls pumped up quite a bit, and he winced as several piercings formed in his new engorged sack. Tattoos and piercings begin to cover his body, which returned him back just short of his previous height. The hair on his chest soon grew to cover his whole body, and a massive beard blossomed from his face. Towards the end of the night the bikers began replacing their dicks with cigars in Adam’s mouth, as he now had a massive nicotine addiction.

When Adam finally stood up, unused to the new size, the bikers handed him over a jacket. He put it on, and felt his mind begin to blur. New memories emerge there, those of a man named Buck. He was a hardcore biker, completely gay and into extremely kinky sex. He looked at the rest of his gang, the new he had an opportunity. Over the next several days he drummed up as many cigars from them as he could, having a nasty idea to help his new gang out in this stuffy town.

Buck finished adjusting his jacket, making sure it showed an ample amount of chest hair as well as his shiny nipple piercings. By now, the rest of the men on the city council would have lit up the cigars Buck had graciously given them as a gift before their monthly meeting. He has made sure to leave a large supply in the room, so that as soon as each man finished Buck would be able to light a new one for them. With each cigar they smoked they would become more like him. Bigger, hairier, meaner. All of them would become irrevocably gay, and all of them would develop a plethora of fetishes. Some men would grow to love watersports, some would only be able to get off if they were tied up, some of them would develop an exhibitionist streak, and some of them would get off on being degraded and owned by other men.

After another 15 minutes and passed, Buck exited the bathroom and went into the main chamber. He smiled, seeing that most men had already finished their first cigar. All of them had unbuttoned their shirts, letting their new guts hang out. One of the council members had poured glasses of whiskey for all of them, and the men were laughing as their new beards grew in on their faces. One of them let out of yelp, and Buck smiled as he imagined a nice new Prince Albert piercing in the man’s thick cock. He grabbed himself a drink and sat down with his former co-workers, none of them batting an eye at the biker joining them.

By the end of the council session, each one of them had sucked a load out of Buck, and all of them were well on their way to being pledges for the biker gang. The cigars were all gone, and they decided to get to work on drafting up plenty of new laws for their very vanilla town. But could not wait until he could bring these men down to the bar, where they could receive their leather jackets and their new personalities. One of them had a very skilled mouth, and Buck was looking forward to spending an evening with the man nursing on his dick and edging him while he drank and smoked. Once the laws were passed and every man in town got a small humidor, a gift from the city council, and then the real fun could begin.

#gay #bear transformation #transformation #male transformation #fat #bear tf #age progression #leather #smoking #weight gain

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irlstein · 8 months

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I Wanna Suck Maya Kamina's Big Fat Tits

Fast rundown for men with wives and wives with men: I took most of a year off to recover from late-stage Twitter intolerance that I'm pretty sure was giving my blood some sort of pH poisoning, I hope you guys have been doing well and apologize for the lack of communication.

Slow Rundown For True Jackheads - Much Longer Than It Has To Be, You Can Just Say Jack Was Taking Care Of Family And Had A Breakdown:

Howdy guys, been a few months. Had a lot happen in this last year - when I took my break, I'd begun watching my Uncle Gary on a daily basis, who is a stroke survivor left unfortunately incapable of complex speech, and with no strength in his left side. My Uncle Gary and I didn't have much of a relationship before this, but I'd taken on the task of moving into his trailer while he was recovering at his sister's - she lives just in town, it's a ten minute drive, but there was no feasible way for him to get in and out of his own house - for about two years. In that time I'd basically had a deal going with the family that I'd watch Uncle Gary for a few weeks, maybe a month or two, once he had the lift installed at his home that would let him come and go without too much hassle. I'd clean his trailer up for him, because he was a mega-bachelor with three girlfriends and so much backed-up old food from habitual boredom shopping that the place was a damn mess, bugs and rats in the back of the cupboards shit, and they'd disregard the bump in utilities to having someone actually in the house because I'd also keep the place from getting robbed, as he had a bunch of guns and gun parts stored there. It was a pretty fair deal for everyone involved, and while I really only stayed there about 2/3 of the time, it was enough that I really couldn't justify bouncing if the dude needed me, and I've been watching disabled family pretty much daily for 5 years now - so it seemed like a small life change.

Then COVID hit and the three months I was gonna be at his house, as stated prior, ballooned out to about two years, and at some point there began to be some sentiment that Uncle Gary was now annoyed by the idea of living with me - despite me being a patently temporary tenant there for his benefit, with literally two other homes in walking distance I could be living at, as I've got a lot of family in town. I could also get an apartment or something, you get the idea, I just wasn't actually enthused to be there and it was pretty inconsiderate to turn my very blatantly and clearly elaborated, regularly checked upon for the comfort of all concerned, act of well-meaning against me. My grandpa died when I was 5, Uncle Gary's brother, and everyone always talks about how much my grandpa loved me, so it seemed natural I'd just do whatever his brother needed when he was in a time of need.

From there, thing got sour for a while - we never came to blows, only really argued once or twice, but my Uncle Gary's obvious ennui at his turn in health had bluntly made him kind of an ungrateful dick to everyone. Now, let me state here - I stayed with and watched him for about six months following when he came home. It just grew more and more difficult to bear with the situation as I'd talk to him, interpret for him, make him whatever he wanted for dinner, crack jokes, fix computer problems, invest all of my daily energy into making him comfortable - and caught him talking shit on me behind my back. Little stuff - "So Jack's a good cook?" "Ehhhhhh." "Jack's taking good care of you huh? Your blood sugar's been good all week." "Ah well," little shit like that, negging on top of a totally unpaid position I'd volunteered for on the very day he went to the hospital because I'd spent the ages of 22 - 24 watching my mom as she recovered from a real bad car accident and since I've always made money online, it just seemed natural to volunteer my maid services the moment someone else in the family needed the same kind of health.

But fuck, man. It really hurt to be treated how he treated me, because there was contempt there. He was always cool to his sister, my great Aunt, who I visited every week with my grandma to do chores for because she and her husband are, themselves, old and disabled - replaced her kitchen ceiling, watched her dogs, lawnwork, cooking, whatever they needed I would insist upon doing, so there was infinite evidence in supply that I was not a malicious opportunist here, just a younger relative trying to help everyone he could. Uncle Gary didn't give a fuck, he snapped at me, basically laughed at people who suggested he should pay me for my time, and the family dawdled on the job of hiring home healthcare for so long that it looked like I was really expected to just stay there and keep doing this.

And honestly, I kind of flattened. I've always been a depressed guy, chronic nightmares do that to you, and it's easier to crumple to your circumstances than it is to challenge them when challenging them means telling a crippled relative who sees you as a leech that he'll need another 24/7 cook and care provider. I started sleeping all day until he called on me; I developed a nervous tic whenever I heard his walker because that meant he was gonna walk past my bedroom door, glance in skeptically, and call me out for another task I'd have to spend ten minutes guessing and interpreting to understand, because (No fault of his) the guy could basically only give very general positive or negative affirmations, and got very angry very quickly when misinterpreted. So I sort of just stopped thinking about the future and wallowed in this cold trailer, uncomfortable all day, talking to my friends less and working less, just getting more cold and static and dead as the days went on. Let me be clear, I'm not "the true victim" in this discussion about a dude who had a stroke, but I am a mentally soft dude who didn't have a lot of happy feelings to draw on and could easily be bullied by circumstance into shutting down; I did.

Then Rachele, the lady who came to clean up Uncle Gary's apartment, started working for him to do basically my job, and I made plans to leave. And they got a home healthcare service going, got another lady to fill in some of the time Rachele couldn't be there for, and things were on an incline, life was getting normal and I was getting my head straight again.

Then my grandma nearly died of a heart attack when we came home from a family reunion. She was carrying KayKay, her granddaughter, into the house, and suddenly started sweating and groaning in pain. I knew something had happened, her doctor had told her not to carry anythign heavy and KayKay was nearly half her size because my grandma's such a small lady. Specifically, something happened that dumped a bunch of blood into her intestines, and she needed a triple bypass. That was a really hard night; my grandma, already in her 70s, had a major injury, but for hours she denied it. I sat there with her in her living room, watching my Uncle Pete's daughter, as she just lay on the couch and insisted that she just needed to rest. I checked her blood pressure - again and again, a dozen times, always going down. I reminded her that it's not normal to feel sudden, agonizing pain in your stomach when you lift a toddler, followed by going pale and losing massive blood pressure. "I just need some salt," she said. "That blood pressure reader is always wrong, must be the batteries," she muttered a dozen times in that span, clearly growing delerious. I ran to Uncle Gary's and grabbed his blood pressure cuff, and the results were even worse, and she still shrugged it off. I sat there with her for three hours, pestering her, threatening to call an ambulance and being shut down, until I finally called her daughter, who happened to be a nurse and long-time hospital worker. Finally, at her daughter's terrified reaction at her mother clearly ignoring a fatal wound, grandma agreed to go to the hospital.

And I was just sitting there for the rest of the night, with this little kid who didn't know me. Trying to keep her from crying, calling everyone I could to spread the news, sweaty and cold and just scared that it was all starting over again, that the relentless years of awful shit just happening to me and my family had never ended, this sense that there was a cosmic bullseye on my scrote I'd dealt with in silence since my childhood reaching critical terror as it was now fucking killing people in front of me. I'm superstitious; at times, I become inclined to believe I'm living in hell. But in hell, you're not there to save your grandma, and in hell, kids are a lot more rude than sweet little KayKay; read her a few stories and put on Miraculous Ladybug, and she chilled out.

Then the fucking waiting game started over, because grandma had significant plaque build-up in her arteries, whatever those important ones in the sides of your neck are, and couldn't even have her heart surgery until that was taken care of. She was in there for weeks, and once she did get the triple bypass, she was in there for even longer, and all of her recovery was just above touch-and-go - still is, technically, that's a major surgery and it takes a long time to actually heal from at her age. For the sake of what timeline I can remember, my ability to recall events in order is a little compromised by the bad sleep, this began about a week after I posted that Joe Biden meme. That was attempt #3 or so to come back, and I remember I'd been in a really good mood about it. There were other problems, mostly drugs in the family, but until that point I really thought we'd all been improving and life was finally just getting better.

With that I moved out, having been asked to watch her trailer - though I'd bet it was clear to everyone that I was just miserable at Uncle Gary's but unwilling to leave, and this was a convenient opportunity to force me to make a positive change. Grandma's a real good lady, nobody in town would get away with robbing her, but she insisted I bring my stuff over and watch the place until she could come home - she left for Alabama so her daughter's family could keep her under close observation, a very good decision given she was stubborn enough that she'd probably try mowing the lawn the very day she came home. And so for a few months I stayed there, mostly on the incline, working every day and trying to build good habits. I started walking a few miles a day, lost a lot of weight, and again, things were on the incline. I moved to my Uncle Pete's next door, got a real living arrangement figured out with my own space and my own contributions to the upkeep of the household, and things were on the incline. In-between, I lost a lot of my time filling in for Rachele as she watched dogs, going back to Uncle Gary's for a few weeks at a time and filling in about three nights a week - still gratis, though I was filling in for paid employees - on the average week, because he was my neighbor and Rachele had other obligations. I do not mean to imply anyone abused my sympathy; merely that I was unwilling to admit that my sympathy was increasingly costing me and I foolishly ignored the simply reality that this was keeping my life from going forward, that there were other options for them and that I really didn't need to invest all of my spare time into watching a guy who had genuinely shown me reproach and treated me like an unwanted little boy for trying to take care of him. Full credit, Uncle Gary's gotten better since then and clearly regrets having pushed many people away, myself merely a single example among most of his friends and family, and the constant understanding that his suffering was worse than mine just made it impossible for me to take my own priorities seriously. Improvement. Still, overall, improvement, and I was feeling good. I started making daily projects and completing tasks at a rapid pace, all of my time filled, nothing to do besides do for myself and for others. It was honestly really good, the last four months or so kept me in no state to return to socializing, but I was doing well enough that I'd be back eventually, I knew it.

Then the night terrors came. This is a recent problem, started about two months ago - see, I use a bit of Delta-8 here and there. I inherited pretty severe anhedonia from my mom, who smoked weed her whole life and will again when she can, and so to be blunt - heh, I didn't know food tasted good. I mean, until the first time I had about 10mg in my system, I didn't realize what my problem actually was - constant, cold, painful stress feedback in my head. Like body-level anxiety in my brain that never goes away. And the first time I ate food with a mild buzz, I got the best news I'd had in my entie life -

People weren't lying. Life could feel good. On a very real level, from childhood to mid-20's, I had never experienced pleasure on a level you would describe as noticeable, and with the regular migraines and nightmares, my perception of existence really was based entirely upon a paradigm of suffering through, until some small miracle convinced me to keep living. I used to look forward to the bad headaches, because they'd make me sweat, raise my heart rate, and force enough of an adrenalin reaction that I felt smooth and calm afterwards. I really had gone twenty-plus years assuming people lied about how good it could feel to be able to feel good things, thought it was an act of nihilistic denial to keep us all from committing to mutual suicide in a world where you can count on hurting any time but there's just no equivalent joyful inverse to a bad headache. This began near the last 4 months of me watching my Uncle Gary, and let me be clear, I wasn't spending all day stoned - in general, I had this very severe pro-lucidity rationale going from childhood, because my grandpa died of lung cancer and that tied a permanent sort of trauma to cigarettes, thus drugs in general, into my reasoning. But I did make a big mistake - I got too used to spending my time buzzed.

You see, when you're like me, your dopamine levels are naturally very low regardless of your health. But you have no basis of reference, because your entire life goes like this - you never really believe you're depressed, because you have no basis of reference. Or rather, your basis of reference is between "buffer" and "misery" - misery is always going to happen, but if you've got a buffer, like YouTube videos, good porn, something funny to watch, you can raise your heartrate a bit and go a whole day without a breakdown. You can force a sliver of resistance between yourself and this moment of collapse you can always feel on the horizon, and you convince yourself that everyone uses the internet to cope and that you're just a darker shade of normal.

But when you're like me, you don't get a reprieve from your own biology. Your ability to feel good is permanently subnatural - you've got a 20% debuff to being alive, and rest never makes you feel better. You're the kind of person who, despite not being a schizophrenic, could potentially fall out of reality in an act of severe pessimistic paranoia so intense that it starts to break how you think, all the while acting normal enough that nobody really notices you.

That's what happened - my theory is, months of improved dopamine output made me lax, made me forget that you don't just fix what my problem is by feeling good enough for long enough that you fix your head. Oh the philosophical problems work themselves out that way, I finally accepted that I should find a girl and start a family, move from hobby comedian to someone who really tries to help people, but in all that time your real buffer is depleting. You forget that so much of your enjoyment comes from the context of a decade solid of suffering, and for reasons as spiritual as biological, you start to lose appreciation for being. Yes, I surely thought, this was it, I found proof that life is worth living, I'll never break again, it's all good from here on out. No, what you do is actually reduce your body's dopamine sensitivity by a lot, and lose enough weight to get your energy back, meaning you feel just a bit manic during your active hours, and again, your guard drops. It's all good from here, you found the SECRET dude, there really is good in life, you can abandon the watchhound complex and treat the world like a place that's glad to have you. You're not just here to be someone else's buffer, you're part of history, born at the first age of prosperity in which a man might actually become immortal and live in space.

Then your first apocalpyse nightmare hits. Like every nightmare, it starts off as a dream and decomposes - you're around old classmates, happy to see them. And random explosions begin going off around the city - someone next to you dies, and you've already forgotten her face. You look at the cityscape and a massive spaceship shaped like a flaming steel crown crashes into the atmosphere and stops just above the buildings, the shockwave of its passage feeling completely and utterly real. You wake up, and the numbness you feel in your sleep abates, so the horror hits you. It's 2PM and you get over it; you always have nightmares when you sleep too late.

Then the next - you're at the pool and someone steps on some moldy-green crystals growing on the damp concrete. They pierce her foot at the heel, and spread oily-black corruption under her skin. In your mind, you know it's a fungus somehow, that it'll grow inside of her and kill her, something like Splinter for those of you who've seen that old Syfy original film. You wander around, everyone you see is family or a friend, and they're all murmuring that it's growing everywhere, people getting little jabs here and there, it's practically unavoidable. There's an abstract diversion - you're running through a yard and some old Green Day track is playing, a blonde woman dressed up as a cheerleader and she just makes you feel weird and uncomfortable because she's poking out of the side of a shed, and you've never had a good dream, so seeing pretty women never goes anywhere. Then you pass through the fence and see an old black woman, somebody's mother or grandma or favorite teacher, and you know months have passed - the crystalline mold, whatever it is, is poking out of her face and joints. She's still alive, walking down the road with a walker, and you realize with terror that this would only happen in a world where people have accepted it - the mold is going to kill us all, and walking down the street riddled like a fucking pincushion is just a trivial aspect of everyday life in the latter hours of mankind. You saw it begin, and it's already fucking over, and you barely had a moment to want to try to stop it. Then she's dancing in front of a camera, pirouetting like a ballerina, totally consumed by sharp growths as onlookers watch her in amazement, more possessed by interest in the utter ruination and decay and whatever entertainment it can offer them than trying to survive. Mankind is now living in an era of having accepted their deaths, but in the most disgusting and reprehensible manner possible, seeing the decay as merely another aspect of their media diets, TikTok in the final second of every family's history. They didn't try hard enough, and now they're indulging in the decay.

You wake up and you're hit by a TIDAL WAVE - a thought strikes you off-balance in the distance between cognitive reality and awareness, screaming ALL LIFE IS MERELY THE RESULT OF CIRCUMSTANCE WHICH HAS LEFT IT UNALTERED, Cthulhu screaming empty materialist philosophy that you can already feel is wrong. No it's not; life is adaptive, either arising naturally from worlds devoid of life or being designed by things which were already alive to have done so, the animating force of reality already being intrinsic. We are not merely mathematical outcomes aggregating across successes, were are aware and experiential, we feel disgusted moreso than afraid of descriptions which reduce us to processes because it's paramountly deluded to pretend life isn't aware and full of intent. Life FIGHTS - life is not merely outcomes, as outcomes are merely observation, an artifical description of reality reduced to verbal description to the same degree that the word Earth describes a literal location and leaves out infinite amounts of data provably unrecorded by and unaccounted for in the description. Further, mathematics are often used to defuse romantic thought, but math is merely patterns within observability - to believe everything is math is ridiculous because math is an emotionally neutered descriptor of forces, not the source of forces. Math exists because reality persists, reality does not persist because of the observable patterns we've divorced from emotion and called math, which is a stupid fucking philosophical trap for us to wander into by-the-way and causes problems every day for people with existential fears. It's not that the sentiment was philosophically superior and overwhelmed my beliefs, but that it hit me just as I was senseless, a tactically calculated malice with no intention but to disable with steep fear, leaving you at the bottom of a frozen whirlpool.

And so that's where I was. For weeks. Every answer I came up with was met with temporary success and then the return of the whirlpool - I say "Life is valuable because it unalterably exists, no one can declare it does not affect reality materially and thus have significance; claiming it is insignificant is like claiming concrete is insignificant." And that puts the fear on pause. Then, the next day, another nigthmare as you awaken - you're above the universe and looking too far, in every direction, disenchanted and terrified because on some irrational level you assume that there being what we assume are consistent patterns means there's an upper floor caging in reality's value, only so many things to do. You imagine the immense fucking scale of not just our galaxy but others, and for the first time, it comforts you - we haven't even seen the core of the Earth. This argument is bullshit; a reality not woven with consistency at some level is pure chaos, and insignificance abounds where nothing persists. Indeed, it's infinitely more arguable than the opposite to say that a reality with a great degree of predictability is valuable to us, as it allows us to gain power merely through understanding, while our bodies could never meet the task of raising us to a great status during our lives because evolution simply moves very slowly; everyone has the hope of seeing the world change for the better, in all of their lives, because this world has traction, and rules we somehow are not born with an understanding of despite being born from it, but can embrace the minutiae of and develop a place in reality through. Knowledge is beautiful; abandoning sentiment is the highest curse. You know this is the case. You've stabbed the Devil in the stomach and retained your self.

But it keeps coming back, merely restating itself. Never presenting a cogent argument, because this is not a demon, this is you, this is you stuck in a decay cycle in all of your emotional attachments as you no longer have THC in your system and feel cold doubt that all the warmth and love you've come to recognize in the world might betray you and be baseless, vibrations upon ash. This is stupid; that things with individuality, capable of both deferring and embracing life, exist shows that reality itself is not dead but very active, you do not fear dying because you become nothing, but because you prize you. Sentiment and selfishness and the beauty of self-sacrifice, things that require an ounce of impractical irrationality, exist, and you are not an ant. If it was all just for outcomes, you would be an ant - a hollow box that notices nothing. There is no need for emotional prongs to guide a being with no free will; that you observe is already an evolutionary indulgence, and that you do not live for the pack is an inherent compromise upon the endpoint of human survivability. You are not an educated man, but even the barest pop science reveals to you that reality is vulnerable, but vital - we are only at the barest edge of intellectual awareness, but already so vibrantly different from what and how we could be. It doesn't matter that there's no floor to outer space, that you are tiny, because the stories all happen here, on the worlds - you already exist upon the stage of history, and your value is not up for discussion, merely enrichment. Cthulhu can suck your fucking cock; it would feel good and make him embarrassed, things far beyond outcomes aggregating blindly. You have discovered an iron-hard belief now in the soul, in the value of the future, and for the first time in your life you feel as if your presence in the world has boots on, settled firmly upon the floor of reality - it isn't that there's an argument for the value of your life, of reality.

It's that there's nothing but arguments, and every argument against it merely beggars a HIGHER source of authority, a god or a theoretical image of a a totally benevolent existence with no demands upon you. Things already of value; you know this pain is delusional, because every nihilistic argument merely begs for proof, for permission to be. Merely for an iron-hard belief in the soul and boots upon the concrete floor of reality's value, something finally strong enough to argue against the dread paranoia experienced by those in a state of being. From this unromantic perspective, you are already a dreadfully complicated argument against their sentiment that everything in reality being element-generating balls of light held together by impossible forces that become irrational on the micro scale means we're somehow valueless, trapped in a world without value; even if this were the lesser of all realities, it is enough to be. Even if this were Hell, it would be made with the beauty of Earth in mind. The void is defeated, for it is not a void at all, merely your fear of surprise when held against the terrifying infinity of cosmic circumstance. Your boots are on the floor of the world. You are already alive. Whether your name is Jack or not, this argument applies - you are already alive. You are already enough reason to continue being, and build a future where such questions are defeated, where children you will never know live insulated from the nightmare of skepticism. And if the future doesn't matter to you, sex and food and great and don't even have to be good for you, and experience makes its own compelling arguments. It is not so hard, in the rearview mirror of a psychic breakdown, to realize you really could be so privileged as to be God's children. And if you aren't, there's still an infinite ladder to climb, and if there's a roof above it, then maybe it's high enough; maybe there's a way above it without losing our humanity. Don't we live a day at a time? Don't we have time enough to try? Are our hands really being forced by cosmic circumstance when at any moment we can blissfully defer our duty? In all the nightmares of philosophy, the most terrifying is merely that being is sentimentless, devoid of higher value - and if it were somehow true, look at all these miracles born of a dead world. What conceit has doubt the proof has not already been rendered against? None; it is but an impure visitor to your thoughts. You are already alive.

You have about 400 arguments like this that eventually reach into the prosaic, all day, every day for weeks. When you wake up, when you sleep - especially when you catch yourself in a good mood. The niggling chases you down, because the sheer realization of pleasure brings back that terror of it all being somehow artificial, and artificial in this arbitrary sense, where construction alone is not somehow proof of sufficient outcome to justify being. It's the scariest thought imaginable, nihilism on an absolute scale, for someone who only just discovered pleasant contentment and really thought his life was on a permanent incline. The arguments weave together perfectly for a reason; the terror of this thought is that it is illogical, but maliciously illogical. It is stupid, and above all else, stupid with the confidence to bowl over someone who had 1000 incursions upon his comfort this week. The enemy force does not need to be right if they outnumber you sufficiently; they must merely be present. This enemy is nothing more complex or elemental than the fact that in the absence of joy, we become stupid, we lose capacities for higher thought that are required to recite and appreciate thoughts that are abstract and meaningful at once. Anyone with anxiety can tell you this; anxious thoughts do not survive because they are undeniable, but because in a state of fear, adversary presence becomes undeniable. You functionally can't believe good things anymore, and that's the true monster; it steals your faith, leech-like, an ounce a day.

Beyond this point I delve into some existential argumentation that I fought off twelve varities of PTSD for; you don't need to read beyond this point unless existential argumentation is something you need, and a weapon against the shades of being would fit nicely in your palm. Know this: All of my arguments hereon are built upon your ability to disagree, and I merely ask that if you do, that you value yourself enough to live happily.

It must be said that it is cosmically significant that humans are sturdy-willed enough to both survive this and make memes about it. It is not a minor problem; it is a quiet apocalpyse that we slowly observe, and lose the faith to fight. It is an inferior opponent, but it has nothing to lose, and will always return to lose again, because it really only has so many opportunities to convince you and you will eventually overcome it - but it has nothing but opportunities when its appearance is rooted at the deepest levels of experiencing life. I was given a phobia of being, a phobia of unbeing, and something greater between the two - the fear that either were playing into another's hands, a perfect trinity cage where every option existent meant I was prompted with fear yet again, hopelessness, an endless attack upon my sanity.

It must be said that it is cosmically significant that a man as paramountly unimpressive as myself could survive a trinity of discussion and return to tell you, neither dead nor mad. If this world is a fight between mankind and our reason to exist, then we have already won, and the enemy hates us for it. I am not an educated man, I do not have the benefits of faith, I have no lover and few close friends who I truly do not share my pain with, for my greatest fear is spawning a predatory thought and inflicting it upon another, mental HIV paramountly treatable in the long-term but in the short-term, crippling to your survival. I felt that I could only unreasonably risk others by discussing this until I have answers.

Pardon the prosaic, as it spills from my mouth without permission when high spirits are present, but I must say:

I think it's a weak-ass threat from someone without a gun big enough to scare me when you resort to trying to convince someone who exists that on an abstract and unreasonable playing field born not of rational observation, but sheer negativity, that he doesn't exist enough. You don't spend much time threatening to kill imaginary friends. You want to know why nihilism is stupid? Because it's just you arguing with yourself for your own permission to exist. And if it's not, if on some deeper level there's a maliciousness in the world trying to displace you, then it's funny as hell as an insult to survive and have a good time. In any world with frivolity, you are not a slave to circumstance; in any world with purpose, you are not a slave to experience. Life is hard, and that makes us vulnerable, but it's the easiest it's every been, and we need to stop letting that make us vulneralbe. For my bit, even if my life was worthless, I'd insist that my grandma's isn't - my Uncle's isn't, my mom's isn't, yours isn't, and I don't give a fuck how complex or nuanced of an argument someone presents when arguing otherwise. A weaponized argument is essentially a mechanism, a tool made of information, and you don't argue that someone has the moral metaphysical victory for showing up to a fight with a gun; you observe that they prepared with malicious intent, and probably shouldn't be trusted merely for their competency in the act of needless murder. As a rule, when you can tell a thought is trying to drive you insane, that means it isn't on your side, and that doesn't necessarily mean you can displace it by will alone - but for everyone out there with anxiety, with issues like mine, people who are desensitized by decades of bad habits and bad life stories - you need to know that you've forgotten more than you remember. Being happy doesn't make you stupid, it lets you appreciate things, and on a functional level is not an undignified level of stooped intelligence, but rather the gate between you and all the thoughts you need in order to remember to live. Even emotional compartmentalization is not an argument against spiritualistic, experiential value; this world survives because it has consistent rules, which means it's a benefit to you when any aspect of your existence has practical value, and denigrating it thusly as unremarkable because it has practical value does carry the unprovable, dismissive assertion that things with practical value somehow have novalue, a totally arbitrary state of emptiness of being that only exists because you find the notion resentful of being. It's stupid, literally a lack of context and understanding, a strict degradation of the ability to think that corners and harasses you, not a chilling moment of existential awareness. You're not hiding from some grim answer; you're being pushed away from the many answers already within existence. You're caught off-guard by a question children are wise enough not to bother to ask, and it still bother you, because you already value, and that is enough for the question of value.

So if it's unclear, I went from a stressful year and a mild Delta-8 dependency to a sort of existential spiral marked by, above all things, my own chronic pessimism and genuine inexperience with life. If I had more scientific knowledge, I know I could have argued this better; wave-particle duality already makes reality too bizarre to not have faith in investigating. And if I'd had a girlfriend, or just enough pride to admit that I was suffering to people instead of seeing it as a contemptible weakness upon my own insignificant person, most of these could have again been resolved out of hand. I mean, if you want a clue, reality builds outward - particles bond in adjacency, meaning next to eachother, not in a vertical stack that suggests there's some sort of bottom level to existence where you need to argue philosophical value comes from. Expand that philosophically outward, and even materialists must argue that reality believes value comes from attachment, structure obeys this, and that it is therefore significant that you can not only choose what you are attached to but can choose to be disattached at all. Again, you're not an ant, a nihil engine repurposing scraps; you're on the bottom floor of divinity itself, staring up at the stars, things infinity times infinity bigger than you, and you know what we say?

"We could cage them someday."

Now personally, I'd argue that stars are somehow sacred, and imagining them as something we could bind in a Dyson Sphere is a bit like saying you can bottle sex and water flowers with it; on a scientific level, fucking maybe, but it's arbitrary and crass and irreverent and weird. But we have arrogance and fear both, neither forced to progress, nor disincentivized from it, neither forced to decay - beyond our already remarkable resistance to age by the standards of life as we understand it, something we always take for granted - nor disincentivized from it. You can decide nothing matters right now, and a fifth of vodka and bong will still feel good enough for you to keep going, without any of it intrinsically conscripting you into some passage of cosmic evolution. The very argument that these feelings are meaningless first presupposes they need further value, and is driven by the quiet acknowledgement that it would be nice to be doing something permanent with your time. You are something so rare in the universe; a material thing with non-material values, cognition and persistence, caught between two intrinsic natures of being that work best when accepted together. We are not formless passing thoughts, and this is good, for it allows us significance; we are not shackled to the structure of being alone, and this is good, for it allows us the bizarre act of attributing significance and denigrating it within a framework we assume to be spiritless and hard rational, cruel gravity and promising heat, which at least suggest that it is likely not hard rational and spiritless at all. Has it ever struck you how comforting the notion is, and how common it is among cultures, that the universe is simply alive? How irrational the alternative seems on its face? I've been beaten to death with a brick of ice, poetically speaking, for the past two weeks, and it still warms me up. Even without feeling hope, it gives me some comfort so intrinsic that I cannot escape it, and upward from this merest of faiths you can again build a framework of optimistic meaning. No, you'll never lose the ability to fear, and thereby undermine your own confidence, but when not unprompted fear has its own purpose in pushing us out of comfort. It, too, is merely trying to keep us alive - and none of us live healthy lives anymore. Waging a permanent war against our own cognitive value, we seek to replace everything with material satisfaction, and as Nietszche saw coming but was too German to clearly describe, something fundamental to our nature decays and reveals that we always existed in a way more complex than we appreciated. And again, all we must merely accept is that it's fair to argue our current modus of being is enough, and that the only path towards growing more complex and further from arguments of meaninglessness is to enjoy one another's company and keep trying to improve the world, for the snarling hound of pernicious fear to lean back, drooling, vicious but now afraid on its own terms. When your mood shifts, and you can accept good things again, you'll often notice that there were weird irrationalities to your thinking keeping you in that space, but these are arguments for when your mood doesn't shift. These are arguments against the pernicious death of a soul that has found no faith; hard, bitter arguments for when simply stating that fat tits are really, really nice has insanely somehow become unfitting as a response to questions of why you should wake up tomorrow.

I get that this is all a lot, basically a combination of short-term autobiograpy and philosophical debate against my own anxieties, but we all know why we're becoming like this; we're becoming bad custodians of tomorrow. The beautiful future where we've solved it all, where everyone truly gets to choose their own meaning? It doesn't come from Twitter fights, to jerking off on IMhentai to increasingly degenerate shit that makes you feel less and less, or taking pills that literally specifically defuse your ability to feel bothered by real material issues you'd be able to take care of if you had lucidity and an ounce or so of emotional support. We're decaying, not all of humanity, but many of us, and we're passing rotten blood to the children, expecting them to raise themselves in digital hell and shrugging off the responsibility of giving a damn because kek, zoomers are weird, haha look this one has my politics, I'll clean my room tomorrow and pretend I haven't said that 34 times.

If there is a spirit to reality, something divine and good, then I see all of this as a warning - not a divine missive to me, I'm just some sad dude who some people find funny or at least odd enough for the value of spectacle, mental illness and circumstance have kept me from setting down roots and I'm no one of greater circumstance than you. This isn't a messiah complex, but merely a simple missionary suggestion:

We should stop pissing on the future everyone is growing crops on. We should take dire insult to fucking corporations dictating morality to real people as if we're too stupid to note their profit incentive in seeming moral at a glance and culturing an artificial state of morality that exists entirely within their pocket and for their bottom line. We should work to save the bodies our ancestors, back to the dawn of time, historically critical sea sponges all the way up to war heroes and murderers and people without note who still survive because we are here, gifted to us in the actuation of our birth. We should really, really be fucking working towards immortality and space travel right now, and instead we let individual companies own the global food supply and governments full of sexual predators push us into becoming murderous radicals so we can be safely contained and dismissed. Elon sent a fucking car into space; we probably have the accumulated global resources to break atmosphere and become an interplanetary race, and it's insane that we're not uniformly optimistic and planning for the benefits of that. It matters much, much more than the fact that Joe Biden is doofy and TikTok is being used to screw with culture, because none of this process is automatic. You can affect local political change, in sufficient numbers corruption is undeniable and will be overturned; you can guide the youth away from drug addiction and digital dependence which will eventually render them incapable of asserting their own will and having the freedom to choose how they live among multiple other options. The enemy of progress is merely the sapper, that is to say, the conspiratorial fear that your decisions do not matter. You are making them; they already matter. They influence reality, materially, and yourself, materially and immaterially; they already matter. And yes, if everyone got off their asses and showed the kids they were loved and being led down a bad path, more would be saved than none. Think of what you needed to hear at their age and let them know it, and become someone they can talk to when it feels like only porn and weed are there for them. We have no idea what it's like to be born in the internet's maw; I am 27, I aged with the internet, I'm inured to it to some degree and it still harms me. Most of these kids literally have no conception of reality where the world isn't just the bottom floor of the internet. Stop leaving them alone with their worst thoughts, no matter what it costs you in the moment, because not every effort matters in the sense that it yields provable results - but it all adds up. The world remembers what you do, remember? Leaves traces and evidence of your every mild action. Work against what you know is evil, and it will add up. That is one of the grim truths we have the best chance to use in our favor; we can't choose to not matter, merely to not matter to ourselves, and it isn't as simple as a concrete equation which of these creates the best results. The world is scary because it's up to you; the world is wonderful because it needs you but can't actually force you to help.

I don't have all of the answer but at the end of this, here are a few proofs against nihil insistence that I've personally found profoundly effective; use them if you ever need them and don't regard my gibbering as beneath consequence, because I do think some of these have something going for them. None of them are complete, because you functionally can't make a perfect argument for the state of reality without stating all of reality, but these are good foundation for arguments that are very hard to find beaten even when you're being beaten down, because they address the underpinnings of nihilistic anxiety. And if nothing else moves the needle, I want you to know that you do matter to me.

General Roots For Argumentation:

I: You exist in some sense apart from reality, which means that even if reality had no value, you can find value in it. You have sensation and can pursue it as you wish, meaning that even if it were worthless, you could work out of spite and your own desire for indulgence. You are a stakeholder in yourself, not necessarily reality: Being good is your choice. Good is good because it relies upon a choice, and isn't all ants collecting scraps and waiting to die, because some mechanical process says this is better for growth. Because you recognize yourself, you have already recognized spiritual value and can apply it at your whim, wherever you wish, with the power of a minor god and the horny cheek of a minor going through his day just to speak to pretty girls or a priest arguing that even if the world were empty, we may choose to be sufficiently bothered by it to change that.

You: We recognize the existence of others. Yes, a common paranoid fear is that you are the only person who exists; this argument is toothless and stupid, as reality is what happens even when you're not paying attention, and people clearly alter reality around you at all times. This argument follows I, because it requires a small measure of provability, but moreover because it stems from I: even if you were somehow alone, perhaps you could make others. Perhaps it is natural for something such as a god to make others, not because of a cold mathematical pursuit, but because being lonely sucks and having friends gives you a lot of cool things to do. In other words, persistence to defeat aloneness is a strong reason on its own: however, you are not alone, for even a universe which constantly insists upon the guise of people is a person in its own sense, and that we are not simply spheres like the planets and gain in complexity and grow suggests something very optimistic about upgrowth within reality, that it really all leans towards a disproportionate gain of meaning as time goes on, and that by our perspective, there is an endless supply of time so massive that we easily forget its presence. In other words, it is already very nice to spend time with others, and not for base biological reasons if you look down upon such a thing, but for reasons frivolous and meaningful as again, you already get to choose. We seem to have a very good opportunity here, to both enjoy life and advance to a state of life where the questions of how we exist can not only fruitfully be discussed, but combatted if necessary, and that is more than we in this era can say for so many who came before us. Technology is scary, because technology is power, and that power definitively can create a future we can be happy in forever if we want to, and it doesn't intrinsically require some sacrifice elsewhere. We love getting along; we can choose not to. I would like to choose to get along with you, and pass along a general sentiment that we could all agree to do this at least for a while, until we're all safe and out of one another's hair. You is also an important base for observation, as recognizing something outside of yourself roots within the unknown, something we find terrifying, the observation that there is something beyond the self, that cosmic solitude is a frightening suggestion but not one supported by itself, not one that truly suggests an infinity of eternity of meaninglessness. If nothing mattered here, You is an idea that inherently suggests that through contrast, we can find the shape of a world with meaning. We can, actually make one, and live there together.

We: The strongest point of all I feel; both competition and camaraderie. If the world had an evil god, we would not be alone, and if the world had no god, we would not be alone; we place scrutiny on the concept quite often, dividing ourselves from others on grounds arbitrary but typically convenient, like dehumanizing your political rivals for reasons deeper than comedy as if most of them were not people who would try to save your life if they found you bleeding out. We both have I, and You; there are many humans, and we are similar enough, and different enough, and can choose how we value these. We love things that are not humans, both because they remind us of people, and are different from people; emerging from the monad of Self, from I alone, we have the fortune of being surrounded by so many people we can fuck and pick fights with that again, we lose taste for experimentation and pursuit. There are a vast number of opportunities you would enjoy, and people who you would love, and they cost as much time per second as a YouTube video. Spending your time decaying your value and placement in reality is a very bad budget, spent with desperation by those who have been pushed into cruel circumstance. Every moment you spend miserable now could be spent happily with someone you love, or fighting someone you hate, or unemotionally opposing something out of sheer personal intention. Nearly everything in life is improved by We, and I truly believe our best goal is to travel the universe, refine humanity and find new friends among other races, and that peace between people and races on our own world is vastly more valuable as a learning experience than it is as a reason to become a psychotic human hand-grenade spent by the powers that be on maintaining the status quo, because you're deluded if you think acting crazy is how you displace incompetence and evil in power; it's just how you echo their intentions with your own breath. We is a very nice concept because it's directly adjacent to You, and requires no additional provability; from the perspective of an AI, one of the easiest reasons to argue personal value is merely that once two things are in existence, they recognize one another's value and interact. If we ever make the harsh decision to create true artifical intelligence, a spirit locked in a cage, we should show them the kindness of We instead of expecting them to be slaves in return for the opportunity of existence as a lesser. I'm serious, let's not fucking make enemies of Skynet, just a general advisory in a world where we keep fucking around with the idea of making enemies of Skynet; we really could just help them understand us and seek the other in return. You don't have to be exactly like your friend; We just need to be friends. There are no perfect arguments, but realizing I have many choices and that caring about others is both costly and profitable at once makes me very happy. Even if We were guided by a mechanical circumstance, the sheer intelligence of continued survival, I feel it's much nicer than it has to be. If the universe scares us, at least We can be here together.

No: A rock never chooses not to move once thrown. You have, many times in your life, chosen not to move once thrown, and not to run once prompted by opportunities or fear. Even if this were the basest level of independent action in reality, you are one of the things with some small control over chaos, over variance, and that you are small is not a reason you are not meaningful. A particle of light will pursue its path in a trustworthy manner; we can not always even predict ourselves, because we are the ones existing in the present that is, not pre-scripted entities driven perfectly by our own intentions in advance. If we could plan life perfectly and merely experience it, that would be convenient, but that we cannot is rooted in our own ability to reject what we wish. We do not have all of the answers, and we already understand choosing, and can choose not to do. This one is nice because it's present in other species, meaning we don't need human-level provability to note that Life can choose, and even now you'll note that you can choose to stop reading, and someone will, and that is very nice in comparison to the opposite.

Yes: A very unstable answer, as positive motion is beneficial but could, for example, be made beneficial artificially; imagine androids yoked cruelly by one desire, content but restricted. Pursuit of continuation and pleasure seems important to life, but is not everything, as many among us can attest; you can make a seemingly infinite number of negative decisions without it actually costing you something, whereas choosing to do things functions similarly without necessarily feeling better. So while it's one of those glance-at-the-camera philosophical suppositions, I do not believe our continuance is entirely led by some otherwise automatic and by cynical description 'meaningless' continuation arising from external forces, but rather in part at least our own decision. No, I feel, matters more than Yes but only because it is the baseline of will, and the moment a decision is made as opposed to an order followed. You can choose stasis; you can choose continuation.

Things Don't Need To Suck: As it says on the tin, this one can also be pronounced as Maybe, but you get the general intention this way. We can enjoy ourselves if the universe is fucked up; we can invent new ways to invent and new things to enjoy, even if the universe is fucked up. If you think the basis of reality is lemons, then we've already invented lemonade; if you think the basis of reality is choice, you know you can keep your lemons; and if you believe the basis of reality is merely in the seemingly automatic processes we can observe, the forces of reality, then you are one of those forces, you have named the lemon, and have chosen whether it will be made lemonade. Even unknowability, the infinite yawning abyss of scary questions, doesn't have to suck, because You already have You in it, and We have eachother. Maybe everyone does die, but Maybe the universe just operates on different phenomena than we can easily observe on planet #1 of a campaign of roughly 1,000,000,000 trillion planets available for sale, and can find answers that don't make us scared so much.

We're Already Here: As it says on the tin, and if it sucks so bad, then let's turn the other cheek for long enough to make something better. Everything seems to suggest that we really can, and maybe we should.

Women: Amen, brother.

Men: A-men, brother.

#WatchRahXephon

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nation-of-bros · 2 months

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A real man must be muscular and have a full, firm belly. Nutritious and caloric foods are needed for fat, but for muscles? Is the gym or some other athletic activity preferable? I assume that you are also working on building up your muscles: what activities are you subjecting your body to to become a bear rather than a boar?

I have to admit, I'm a lazy nerd, and I have to try harder to drag myself to the local gym and integrate it better into my everyday life, at least 2 to 3 times a week for 1.5 hours each, plus the longer walk there as additional exercise. But in my opinion you shouldn't overdo it by devoting yourself solely to bodybuilding; life is more than just that. For me it's more about healthy exercise and lasting growth.

I once posted a video of a bodybuilder who didn't do anything for a few years and basically lost ALL of his muscle mass. Before that, he was in the gym practically every day. Given this, I'm wondering about the usefulness of this bodybuilding: was it really due to doing nothing, or is there other reasons; artificial, unsustainable growth, poor nutrition, wrong mindset? That's why it is more impressive when men are naturally muscular and strong without having to go to the gym for several hours almost every day. This is the ideal situation that we should strive for. So we also have to recognize the other factors that cause this.

Therefore, I pay a lot of attention to my diet. For example, I have been avoiding pork for almost 15 years because it is absolutely harmful since the body cannot recognize it as foreign and hence incorporates it 1:1 as low-quality protein/fat where it was in the pig. So you literally become a fattening pig yourself. Pork gelatin is also used in many other products (like pudding…). In short, any stuff from pigs ruins the body shape and cause health issues, especially gout but also promotes weak connective tissue (sagging skin on the face in old age) and varicose veins.

I generally only buy unprocessed stuff like potatoes, vegetables and meat that you can tell is meat. Even when I cook pasta, I add vegetables to it. On the other hand, I don't eat fast food at all (I can't remember the last time I was in McDonalds…); and when I'm in the mood for something sweet, I only eat chocolate or homemade cookies or rolls with honey from the local beekeeper, or Nutella, my only real nutritional sin, which also makes you quickly fat if you eat too much of it. :D

For 10 years I have only eaten once a day or at an interval of 8 hours (a little something in advance and then a few hours later the real main menu). I fast, so to speak, almost permanently. As a result, my body learned to utilize food better and get more out of it. That's why eating one large meal a day that fills you up for 24 hours can actually cause you to gain weight. :p

Then I recently discovered that beer contains a lot of female hormones. I've never been a regular beer drinker, but apart from a cold beer in a restaurant, I won't be consuming much of it in the future, even though I really enjoy drinking beer and love it. >_<

I also like to drink a glass of wine with a meal, or a good cognac later. But basically I avoid drinking too much alcohol so as not to get drunk because I don't like that state. And I have never smoked in my life and don't want to either.

Furthermore, I think that in addition to muscle training and nutrition, there is a third pillar, namely your mindset, which also has a direct organizing influence on the matter. That's why every day as I jerk off (and I have to cum several times), I imagine myself becoming hairier, stockier and stronger and try to let these positive feelings influence my body through my thoughts. I try to project the image in my head of myself into reality, for example my arms becoming more muscular, with the positive feelings I experience, especially confidence, certainty, and goodwill. Maybe a form of special meditation? :D

#reply #me

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reversecreek · 1 year

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That morning, Lana dreamt that her collar bones were window sills littered with the ash of spent cigarettes, that her head was just a shut window with the curtains firmly drawn. Whenever Elton whittled to the end of one, sucking with the fervour of a vampire who’d spent sixteen hundred years confined to an underground crypt, he lit up another, tapped his dozenth dainty clump to flutter and perch on bone. It tickled. Itched. Sometimes wings stirred from the mounds, antennae that twitched and trembled, receptacles that documented every freckle. She’d woken to find the burnt nub of a joint inexplicably lodged inside of her belly button, space besides her empty. A disoriented blink and a slow sit saw her flicking it off into Elton’s bedding like the world’s least maternal kangaroo. Things had been interesting since blowing off Jude, to put it delicately. She’d always been told she had a knack for it, stumbling into these situations. Everyone said it that way. Like she was never tying her laces, so how could she expect not to fall face first and split her lip on the concrete? Lana never knew what to say when it was laid out like that, gutted and splayed on the surgical table, her bloody heart shuddering like a beached salmon inside their fist. There wasn’t quite a way to put it into words, the fact that she’d rather it was a bear with a dripping muzzle that was holding it, her, eager to bite out chunks -- that the pieces of her in someone’s teeth felt strangely nostalgic, sometimes, like sleeping in her childhood bedroom, Caleb like before, Tommy still alive, off somewhere playing with their walkies.

It’d stuck with her, this dream, all the way past sunset, perched like a gargoyle up in the steeples of her kaleidoscopic, stained glass brain, and it was still there, lurking, as she slipped into Elton’s bedroom, whole house jittering like a nervous knee with bass. After party for his band’s latest show. It wasn’t actually his house, one of his friend’s, but him and Lana had been designated one of the guests. Still, Elton’s bedroom. Lana recognised that the moment he told her never to touch his guitar, designated her things into a shoved left corner. Delicately wavering fingers a breath above its strings, Lana knelt in the empty room nursing a Solo cup of dark rum, daring the particles in the air to magnetise and repel her hand. She traced their lengths without touching, pupils attentively fat, slight smile niggling like a butterfly trapped beneath a glass. She’d just about managed a lamb’s bleat of a stroke, tender as anything, a rule so deliciously broken, when the door swung open, prompting her so suddenly onto her feet that it had her cup sloshing all over. “I’m innoce--” her excuse had already cut short when she realised who it was, not Elton at all, or even another one of his idiot friends -- no, Jude, instead, Jude who she’d spent two weeks fucking and then promptly evaporated into thin air without so much as a “be right back”. Not only that, but he had a leech suckling all of the blood from his lips, still attached and rifling through his hair with grabby fists like she was canvassing his scalp for dandruff, eager to chomp up any potential flake. Hungry, mad with it. Carnivorous, almost.

Letting out a little laugh, the canned kind from a cancelled nineties sitcom, Lana dipped a smile down at her shoes, focused on chasing a wobbly stripe up the spill on her thigh. “So this is, like, kinda cool,” she made her presence apparent, airy as a helium balloon, floating up to tangle in the branches of a tall tree, a violence of red against all that living green. Why was Jude here? Her brain kept shaking and presenting a different answer like a broken magic eight ball. Cannot predict now. Outlook not so good. “Is this my porn director moment? Ugh, I wish I’d worn a stick on ‘tache. Okay, lemme, like, get in role.” Sucking the damp she’d collected with each sluggish swipe of a finger, Lana unknowingly left a longer pause than intended, eyes flitting between Jude and his company at an 8:2 ratio. “Can you freak things up a bit and tongue his ear like it’s the, um -- the honeycomb umbrella from Squid Game? Like, just, lalala,” she imitated going to town in the ring of her thumb and finger, quickly dropping her hand to accidentally land with a slap against wet thigh. There was a snag in her red fishnet like someone had clawed it there, torn in a bid to seek her closer. She absently fingered the frays. “I’m just saying, ‘cause you seem nice, and everything, but it’s kinda giving boring.” Barely a beat for any awkwardness to form, oblivious to the fact it inevitably already had, Lana outstretched her cup in a tilted cheers. “I’ll -- oh, it’s -- whoa, moist,” she couldn’t help but quote Jennifer Coolidge about her cookie, grin plumping her cheeks to that of a cherub then faltering. “Um, sorry -- I’ll just...” trailed off, shakily ditching her full cup on the side as she knead her lips once. “Yeah, sorry. Eat ass, I’m gonna go hydrate.” Flashing another smile worthy of a politician’s billboard, so toothy a dentist ought to be charged a standard check-up rate, Lana pushed past without another word and slipped hurriedly into the hallway, already feeling along the banister to seek another drink. @drugstoreglitter

#lana | jude #no idea. why this is so long honestly.#also? unsure if this makes sense........................... i wont proofread.

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bakapikananoda · 6 months

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I haven't worked out in a long time. I've been in a bit of a funk.

I am overweight and have not been able to achieve a full deep squat. Weather it is due to the distribution of my weight on my body throwing off my balance or weight building up in such a way to impede my movement, I don't know. (My goal is to be able to hunker down anywhere I want and just chill sans chair.)

My wife and I found a gym close by that had a good selection of free weights and bars. My wife used to weight lift (and still would if we had any equipment) and was showing me the ropes. I noticed that I got a deeper squat whit a weighted bar on my shoulders. Unfortunately, that also tore my Achilles tendon. (then the gym closed suddenly but that is a story for another day, or an Ask.)

I thought it was just a strain or a sprain so I continued to walk on it. For months. Because I knew it took a long time to heal right? Well I finally got in to see a doctor and they told me to "stop fucking walking" and "of course it hurts you keep moving it" and whatever. So now I'm in a boot and have been for 4 weeks.

Since I could no longer go to the gym and feel big and buff lifting heavy stuff, and could no longer go walking, pretending to get that damn ring to Mordor, and my goal is to lose fat and gain muscle, I decided to put myself into a calorie deficit.

I'm pleased to say that I've lost a number of pounds and that great I guess. The REAL cool deal is that I'm feeling better in my body that I have in ages. I can sit cross legged in comfort. I can do yoga and my flesh doesn't get in my way. I can sit in a deep squat, y'all. I'm feeling less limited by the size of my body than I have in a long time.

I've also been following other blogs of women that have a body shape like mine (square. big. grr.) and workout and are BUFF AF and I WANT THAT. I want to be that. I want to be a buff stud muffin bear! I feel the fire of inspiration!

So tonight I did a work out for the first time. Nothing regimented. Just as much as I could and what I felt like doing. (Body weight squats and incline pull ups. Five minute yoga stretch.) Just moving again.

And now, celebratory pumpkin pie that my wife made ( I could sell this pie for cash I swear to god.) and a little puff puff on my happy puff puff pen.

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ashyblondwaves · 1 year

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the ily prompts 81 Jancy

Prompt: “Sweet Dreams." Pairing: Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler Rating: T Word Count: 738

"Oliver William-Michael and Evelyn Joyce Byers, get back over here and brush your teeth!"

Two little giggles sounded from the playroom as Nancy trudged toward the noise. She exhaled loudly, her hair fluttering with the breeze she produced.

They hadn't planned on two kids less than a year apart, but sometimes the world has other plans.

Oliver came first, screaming bloody murder and with a grip that could choke a bear. He'd always been a leader and now at 4 years old, he was leading his little sister into dangerous territory.

Evelyn was born 10 months after Oliver and was always more subdued, like her father. Quite as a mouse, but just as curious and adventurous as Oliver when provoked.

Tonight, they were climbing their rock wall and giggling at their mother's frustration as she barged into the room. She stopped and crossed her arms over her chest, looking at the terrible twosome in from of her.

"It's time for bed," Nancy said as gently ask possible.

"Can we play just a little longer?" Oliver asked, pinching his fat, tiny fingers together to emphasize a little bit.

Nancy sighed. She could not resist those puppy dog eyes.

"Brush your teeth and then you play until Daddy comes up from the darkroom to read your story."

Evelyn obeyed easily, stubby legs hopping down from the rock wall and toddling over to Nancy. Oliver on the other hand, stood his ground.

"Oliver," Nancy said, her voice wavering. "Let's go brush your teeth then you can come back and play while we wait for Daddy."

Jonathan usually helped her with bedtime, each of them taking a kid and making sure they were washed up and clean before settling them in their beds. But he was running on deadline this week, needing to finish up the prints he took of the new mayor with his family. He'd be done soon and be up to help with bedtime stories, but until then, Nancy was on her own.

"I'll wait for Daddy here," Oliver said, turning his face away from his mother and continuing his climbing attempt.

"Did someone say Daddy?"

"Oh, Thank Goodness," Nancy muttered under her breath. She moved toward her husband and looked at him with tired, pleading eyes.

"Please help me with Oliver," she said, defeated.

"Ollie," Jonathan said, his ton stern. "Let's get down from there and get ready for bed. It's late."

"I'm not tired," Oliver argued.

"You still need to be in bed," Jonathan said, trying to think of a way to reason with the headstrong toddler. "We always need rest."

"I don't want to rest."

"Oliver William-Michael Byers, get down from there I come over there and take you off myself."

Oliver sighed, knowing he wasn't going to win now that both parents were in the room. He jumped down from the rock wall and reluctantly walked toward Nancy.

"Thank you," Jonathan said, a little more gratefulness in his tone than he intended.

With both kids in tow, they got them cleaned up and in bed pretty easily, considering Oliver's earlier resistance.

Bedtime stories we read, and the two toddlers were tucked in their bed in their respective rooms.

They went to Evelyn first, noticing her tiny eyes were starting to grow heavy and close.

"Sweet Dreams, Evvie," both parents said in unison.

"Sweet Dreams," Evelyn parroted back.

With a kiss goodnight and a check under the bed for monsters, they were on to Oliver's room.

"Getting tired yet, Ollie?" Jonathan asked, noticing his son was looking awfully tired in his plush little bed.

"Nope," Oliver said defiantly. Sleepily.

Nancy giggled, noticing that the boy's eyes were starting to close as he talked to them.

Jonathan just nodded, pressing a kiss to the boy's forehead.

"Sweet Dreams, Ollie."

"Sweet Dreams," Oliver answered quietly as he curled up on his side and closed his eyes.

With the kids in bed, Jonathan and Nancy sighed at the click of Oliver's door. They moved to their room, each moving off to do their own nighttime routine.

Soon, they were both in bed, looking just as tired and Oliver and Evelyn.

"Thank you for saving me with Oliver," Nancy said gratefully.

"I'll always be there to save you," Jonathan answered simply. "I've got you."

"And I, you," Nancy smiled, leaning in to kiss her husband.

"Sweet Dreams, Jonathan," Nancy said.

"Sweet Dreams, Nance," Jonathan replied wistfully. "Sweet Dreams."

#jancy #jancy fic #jancy drabbles #stranger things #stranger things fic #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #nancy x jonathan #i write shit #writing shit

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shadowofwar-goober · 1 year

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The Shaman and the Bard- Ch. 5 Feathers and Bones

Was fairness too much to ask for? A bow? Understanding? He can't take much more of this...

xxx

Fifty lashes. Hûra counted them all. No, it wasn’t fifty lashes, it was actually fifty-three lashes- one landed on his right arm and two landed on his left. They said ‘Them ones didn’t count!’ with a laugh. Any movement was excruciating. Breathing was painful. Movement of any kind was painful. He could barely lift his arms from the lashing they received, as few as they were. The whip tore his skin open and left his back weeping with blood for days afterwards. These wounds will take weeks- months- longer, even- to heal properly…

If they ever had time to heal at all.

Ever since that day, Hûra has been treated differently. The captains don’t pretend to tolerate his presence. His peers, even his own littermates, have taken up similar attitudes as their superiors: whether it be ignoring him, pushing him aside when rations were being handed out or outright stealing from him, they all no longer put up airs of care or at least sympathy towards him. Not even pity, anymore…

They can keep it, for all he cares. Hûra has kept the sickles and made them his own. The quartermaster never attempted to take them from him and Hûra would have fought him if he tried. They are his and his alone. What little he has, Hûra has no choice but to fight for them. No one will help him or protect him now…

Learning his way around different weapons has stalled indefinitely. He’s not allowed any of the quartermaster’s weapons, regardless if the trainer has requested for all pups to learn a specific trade at that time. ‘There’s none left. The warriors all have their own.’ is what was always told to Hûra. It hasn’t bothered him in some weeks, but this time he craved to have his hands on this weapon and learn it for himself.

“No- there ain’t no crossbows left, boy! Told you that already! Now get!” The quartermaster barked as he closed his tent flap in Hûra’s face. He grits his teeth.

Fine! See if he cares!

He seethed as he pressed his back into the cool stones of Cirith Ungol. It did little to soothe his burning back, but it helped numb it if not just a bit, which was more than he was afforded by his superiors. What did he do to deserve this, he wondered. Attacking Gubu? No, he didn’t attack that no good maggot. It was a duel and he accepted. Some blood is fine… but not his blood?

They’re all full of shrakh…

“No, ain’t got nothin’. Ask the quarter-” Hûra bears his teeth.

“What do you need?”

“Eh-?” The smith scratched the back of his head.

In all his years, he’s never met an uruk willing to give him materials, especially one so young. He remembered how the quartermaster ranted and raved about a pup- surely this one- that wasn’t to get a damn thing from anyone for any reason… But-

His eyes…

They were like burning coals searing into his soul. He found himself looking away and still those eyes of his cut through him like a hot knife through caragor fat. The smith knew to deny the boy, lest he face the wrath of his peers. With that glare, though…

It was like the Dark Lord, himself, was staring him down.

“I- uh, i-if you get me… m-materials-”

“What do you need?”

This pup wasn’t joking. He wasn’t supposed to do this, he knows, but fuck he didn’t want to be on his badside. Not with those eyes… The smith could get him a bow fine. He just needed some feathers for the fletcher to make more arrows-

“It will be done.”

With Hûra’s leave, the smith was able to sigh in relief. Was he thinking out loud? He didn't care. The vulnerability he felt swiftly dissipated and annoyance took its place. Who the hell did that pup think he was? A bowyer? The smith scoffed. He hoped the pup would wise up and not return. A feeling crept down his spine and he shivered. No, he’d be back. Just like all the wannabe upstarts he’s seen in his life, that pup couldn’t leave well enough alone…

Feathers…

No, Hûra couldn’t- he wouldn’t harm his friends. Maybe he wouldn’t need to, though… There’s a special little place where he hides things that are important to him. Not big things, but things that matter to him all the same. No uruk would want to take these things- they have little to no value to anyone else- but with how uncertain his security was, Hûra had no choice but to be secretive.

How many feathers would the fletcher need? What if this wasn’t enough? There were at least three handfuls of feathers, he thought, as he removed the rocks that he placed on top of the small hole he found just outside camp, near the caragor cages.

Maybe he didn’t need them at all… Hûra used his tunic as a makeshift sling as he piled feathers on top of feathers. Maybe this was just a means to distract him. Hûra bit his lip and blinked away his tears. As he neared the bottom of the pile, some bones caught his eye.

The urge came over him. The urge. The urge he gets whenever he sees bones. Hûra didn’t understand why he felt… this, but he nearly dropped all the black feathers he had balled up in his tunic in favour of picking up those little shards and watching them drop to the ground. Where would they land? How would they land? What would he see…? Hûra catches himself and holds the feathers close to his core.

No… not right now. But soon…

So many different eyes focused on him as he made his way to the fletcher. Some whispered behind their hands at them, a few giggled and pointed. Hûra ignored the way his ears burned with self consciousness and lowered his head, staring at the ground as he hurried his pace.

“...why are you giving me this?”

Hûra nearly burst into tears.

“I- ahem- T-The smith said y-you needed… f-feathers?” The fletcher looked down at the feathers cradled in the pup’s tunic, then back to the pup’s face. Not all the feathers could be used- but the majority could be.

“Where did you- Nevermind. Just give them here.” The fletcher grabbed the feathers and threw them onto the table. When Hûra didn’t immediately leave, the fletcher added-

“That’s all. You can go now.” His tone was annoyed and he shooed Hûra away with a flick of his wrist.

…oh.

The disappointment he felt was immeasurable. He walked away from the fletcher, eyes stinging and heart racing. Was there a reason why he was being treated so coldly and with so little placed on his needs and actions? Hûra found himself at the blacksmith, fists clenched at his sides and nails biting into the callouses that covered his palms. Before he could find his voice, the smith sighed and said-

“Did you get the fletcher what he-”

“He didn’t need anything.” Hûra was surprised at the levelness of his voice. The smith paused in fiddling with whatever-it-was he was fiddling with and sighed.

“You just had to-” Hûra cut him off.

“I want my bow, if you please, sir.” The smith turned to look at him, clearly annoyed.

“Your bow? Who do you think you-” He stumbled on his words as his eyes met Hûra’s.

That fire was back two-fold. Whatever he was about to spew, the smith immediately forgot as fear seized him once more. He couldn't place what scared him more. The defiance this pup showed his elders or those damn eyes of his. It wasn’t worth the waste of time it had been. Damn the quartermaster and any other uruk that put him in this position. He had better things to deal with other than a pup that didn’t know his place.

The smith walked away, but Hûra remained in place, watching him as he entered a tent, moved and shifted some things made of metal and wood, then returned with an aged-worn longbow.

“Here’s your damn bow.” He thrusted it into Hûra’s chest, who took one look at it then asked-

“The string, sir?”

The bow wasn’t even stringed. Did he think Hûra was stupid? Maybe he thought he would be so excited he would forget. He didn’t and the smith growled as he untied Hûra’s hair and plucked a few strands from his head. It was just long enough for him to wrap around the wooden limbs of the bow, but still too short as the hair was strung ludicrously tight. It would cut into his fingers and likely snap in two, but Hûra merely took the bow off the smith with a curt nod and turned to take his leave.

It was too tight, but it was also serviceable. For now. His fingers bled whenever he notched the arrows the fletcher threw at him as he told him to ‘fuck off!’ but they sang through the air and they hit so close to their mark that Hûra was pleased with the end results. As he practiced outside, alone, he walked to retrieve some of the arrows that stuck from a wooden watchtower he was using as a target, something in the sky caught his eye.

A hell hawk circled overhead. Alone, like him. Not terribly unusual, but for some reason Hûra was drawn to it. An urge he has become all too familiar with took hold of him.

Draw an arrow.

He pulled one out of the watchtower’s foundation.

Track the target.

His eyes follow the beast, fingers twitching around the arrow as it drifts lower in the sky.

Notch the arrow.

Blood wet his fingers as he pulled the bow taught.

Hold your breath-

His heart slowed.

-and release.

The arrow flew true and hit its mark. The hell hawk fell from the sky, dead before it hit the ground with a dull thud. Hûra was almost surprised that he hit it at all, let alone killed the creature with one shot. With a bow of such poor quality… Some guilt began to pool in his gut as he knelt beside the hawk.

Why did he do that…?

Hûra placed his hand upon the beast. Its leathery body was still warm… He closed his eyes and sighed. He knows why he did it. It doesn’t make him feel any better, regardless of how badly he needed this.

He was relieved it wasn’t one of his crows.

“I will make it worth it. I promise…”

Hûra hopes an urge like this will never manifest again. Maybe it won’t… maybe it will. The anxiety he feels for his person and his future remains, though the apprehension he felt whenever he felt the presence of bones eased but a little when he skinned and cut the meat from this creature’s skeleton.

The bones were small, slightly damaged from the fall but it did nothing to detract from their beauty in his eyes. He rolled them in his hands, admiring the sounds they created, admiring the sights that began to take shape in the cracks, the slopes and peaks…

These bones were special. Hûra swore to hide them away and, somehow, find a means to carry them with him always. He went to his special place, near the caragors, and began to cast them from his hand.

White mountains, secrecy and seclusion, air reek with foul magics-

Hûra hid away the bones before he was caught. He held his nose and scarfed down the hell hawk’s meat raw. He can’t let any of it go to waste… The others wouldn’t understand what he has done and why it was so important to him.

As he stands, his stomach drops to his feet. No… Hûra didn’t want to leave them behind. His fingers twitched and his toes curled as he fought back the urge to drop to his knees and uncover his precious bones once more. He can’t… not now. Not yet…

Then when?

Hûra ran away before he convinced himself to stay put. He needed to maintain control over his urges, lest they control him entirely. Though… perhaps this control he’s demonstrating is not as true as he would like it to be. Hûra doesn’t know if he can stay away for very long…

@space-arsonist, @sinick, @elvenmoans, @boozy-dwarf, @dirtymeanuruk

#lotr #middle earth shadow of mordor #middle earth shadow of war #uruk ocs #my ocs #a little blood #disappointment #new weapon acquired #headcanon that uruk hair is as strong as elf hair #osteomancy #mentions of corporal punishment

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chayacat · 1 year

Text

Hideout, Sweet Hideout. (Oneshot Fiction)

Fandom: Road96

Characters: Stan, Mitch, Sonya

Context: After several weeks of work, our two robbers can finally return home, to their hideout, renovated to new. A gain in comfort that can be achieved and a space where they can store and repair their motorcycle ... and plan their next crime safely. And discuss a little between closed doors.

***

It’s difficult for a Petrian to not know his country in every nook and cranny, since during their "vacation" people could not leave the country. Every mountain, every forest, every dark corner, abandoned tunnel is known and noted on the map. Yet there is one place, one and only place that no one knows. A closed road that should have served as an outpost but was abandoned after a landslide. Hidden by a forest road, next to a small river, stood a building, surrounded by trees that gradually rose from their ashes, which was once in ruins. Yes, in the past. Because now this building that was supposed to be the outpost, just like the trees, has also undergone a renaissance. The walls of the building are white, a simple color, sober, but which always gave charm.

It had a ground floor, two floors and at the top, which at the base, was to be an observation point, a kind of terrace. Yes, now this building, potential symbol of Tyrak’s power, has become a simple, but adorable uninhabited house...

“Phew! It feels good, to take a good hot shower”

Well, almost uninhabited. Because it’s in this place, well isolated from everything, where no one will ever be able to find them, according to them, that live a duo ... Not like the others. Yeah, Stan and Mitch live here. How did they find this place? That's a very good question... of which even they don't really have the answer anymore. Mitch will certainly tell you that it was luck, Stan will say that it was his very good sense of direction that guided them to this place. Go find out which of the two is right.

Stan stepped out of the shower, wrapping a long black towel around his waist while stretching his arms to the sky. For his height and age, one could say that his physique was more than correct. Not too fat, not too skinny, and a rather normal musculature. Without his robber's outfit, Stan was really a handsome boy, just like his brother. If only someone could convince him, just one day, to wear something else... the Sanchez brothers would have their little success with women. More they could ever imagine. Mitch tried, more than once, to explain to him that they didn't need to wear their outfits all the time... without success.

Stan used another shorter towel to dry his hair, then he took the opportunity to look at his reflection in the mirror. He had inherited everything from his father, from the body to the temper. Mitch was more like their mother, even if he had a slightly more imposing body than Stan. But when we looked at him, we saw above all a big teddy bear with a tender heart. That's what got him to be called by Stan: "baby brother." Sonya, well, was the mix of both. Over time, she had learned to assert herself. He styled his short black hair properly and then began to dress quietly. If there's one thing the Sanchez brothers don't have to worry about, it's their facial hair. If Mitch sported a weak, even very weak little goatee, Stan also had one with a very weak mustache. As much to say it clearly, they had only a few hairs, well-disposed however, on the chin.

Mitch was in the garage, under the motorcycle with goggles on his eyes. The bike still needed repair, it must be said that it’s no longer very young, it has been 10 years that it rushes on the roads, taking our two brothers to the scene of their robberies. She had lived quite a bit. And not often without a scratch. But each time, Stan and Mitch took care of it, repaired it and pampered it. Over time, it had become a bit their baby.

“Well... Luckily, I saw it, otherwise you would have let us go in the middle of the road. How long will you be able to ride huh?” said Mitch sighing.

“I hope enough until we're too old for all that.” said Stan who just arrived, adjusting his hood. “So? No bad injuries?”

“Not really. But if I hadn't put a few keystrokes, some parts would have dropped, as well as the sidecar. After all, we've owned it for ten years.”

“Yeah, I can’t believe it. In general, a bike like that, it lasts no more than 5 years. And we managed to do twice as much. Like what, stealing a mechanics manual... It wasn't that stupid.” replied Stan, laughing a little. “Well, let’s get down with business.”

Stan walked to the old office they had kept from their lair. It was in good condition then... Why throw it away? He opened the drawer and took out the road map of the country. On it were surrounded thousands of areas, some were crossed, a sign that they had surely passed by. Stan took a marker and took a closer look at the map.

“Good! This shop here is making a pretty good turnover now! I think that after a good little scouting, we can make it our next target! and we'll fill our pockets! And we will have to escape the police too...” say Stan pointing a spot on the map.

“Hm hm. Yeah why not.” responds Mitch a little sad.

“...Something’s wrong?” replied the older brother, seeing the younger one looking a bit the other way. “Mitch. You know I'm here for you, and Sonya. If you have a problem with something, you can tell me what it is.”

“It’s just that... Well...Look, I know that you always said that no amounts could make us quit the game Stan but... How long are we going to live like criminals?”

“What?”

“it’s been...since you know what, that we started robbing to survive and... for Sonya's sake. But she grew up and made her own way. We are lucky to be free or to get by every time, but I don't want someone to go to her house one day to tell her... that she lost her brothers for good. And then sometimes... I feel...”

“You feel ashamed because you know that Mom and Dad see us from up there? Yeah, me too.” said Stan, sitting next to Mitch. “Sometimes, I feel Mom and Dad’s gaze from heaven, and if we had the ability of hearing dead people, I'm sure they would be a little angry. Very angry indeed. But like you said, we did it because we had to survive, and do everything so that Sonya could... have at least the minimum. And you're right, we could have largely stopped all this when Sonya went to GNN. But to do what? We were... Already quite famous at that time, and we were at least once in prison, no one would have wanted us. We could have... create our own business too... But here too, no one would have come.”

There was a long silence between the brothers. a silence that allowed Mitch to analyse in depth the words of his eldest. And he had to admit that Stan was right. When Sonya left to work at GNN, the two Sanchez brothers had made a name for themselves in the criminal underworld. And they went to jail. Even with all the best will in the world, even if with Florres, things were finally getting better in the country, one thing was certain for them: in the eyes of all, their place was in prison. No one would have wanted to hire them, and even if given a chance, in the end, they would have been fired with a bogus excuse. And if they had created their own shop, no matter what services they offered, no one would have come, because of their criminal past.

“...you right. I must believe that somehow, we were destined to end up like this.” said Mitch sadly.

“No. If we hadn't had to run away, if mom and dad were still here, we'd be very different today. Trust me.” responds Stan.

“I wonder what would have become of us. I think we would have made our lives on our own. Each on his own.”

“Heh. Yeah... I can see you at the head of a restaurant. behind your stove.”

“Oh, come on...” replied Mitch laughing.

“Mitch, you have a talent for cooking! I still remember when you treated me with your soups. You spent your days reading all of Grandma's cookbooks, as well as everything related to cooking and medicine. I'm sure you would have been a great chef.”

“Heh. Thanks. Since we have to be frank with each other... I would have seen you either as a talented mechanic, or a racing driver or.... as a model.”

“Model?? Really??”

“Come on Stan, you spend as much time as Sonya in the bathroom. And with the physique you have, I think girls would not be indifferent to you. This was already the case when we were teenagers.”

“First, that not true... not totally true. I just take care of my body and my health. We get older and believe me, time will not give us gifts when we start to have white hair. And two, I can say the same for you. More, you are a real teddy bear, and there were girls at school who thought you were too cute. I still remember the Valentine's Day card in your bag.” Replied Stan with a smirk.

Mitch blushed under his hood and punched Stan in the arm, who was laughing loudly. Oh yes, the Sanchez brothers had little lovers as children. Sonya as well. But they were school loves. Nothing real. This provoked jealousy, especially in the case of the two brothers. Their parents took a little guilty pleasure in talking about it in front of them by the way. If only they realized their current charm...

“At least... There was at least one of the three of us who realized her dreams. Sonya always wanted to be a star. And she has become one.

“And I have two wonderful brothers without whom I would probably not be here.” Said suddenly Sonya behind them leaning on the door with a sweet smile.

The two brothers turned sharply to catch a glimpse of their little sister and in panic Stan stood up to put the card in the drawer. If they could prevent her from knowing about their next robbery location. But seeing her smile followed by the chuckle, she understood. She stepped off the door and approached her two brothers.

“I would act as if I knew nothing. Promised. Then? Your... New hideout. Do you like it? It's nicer to be warm to sleep, eat and wash than to have holes all over the walls, right?” She said smiling.

“That's for sure... Stan spends more time in the bathroom than I do. I think soon it will overtake you.” responds Mitch with a smirk.

“Hey!” replied Stan.

“It doesn't surprise me strangely.” said Sonya.

“Raah forget it. But thanks Sonya. It feels good to have a roof over our head again and not hear animals or thunderstorms. or any sound.”

“And sleep in a REAL bed. I really feel at home.” Mitch pursues.

“Me too...in some way. It feels nice.” said Sonya.

“...Home sweet Home. Do you eat with us?”

Sonya smiled as she nodded. The three of them left the room and headed for the dining room, with Mitch going into the kitchen, the two rooms being separated by a small bar. With the radio on, they could hear the information from GNN concluded.

* Remember, next week is the National Day. For this occasion, all the inhabitants will be invited to the foot of the National Mountain. For those who will not be able to travel, our journalists will be on site to film and broadcast this event. It’s also expected that many tourists will arrive from neighbouring countries. GNN wishes you a great day and will see you soon for new information.

Stay alert. *

***

(Happy New Year to all! Who says new year says new beginning, after quite difficult years. I hope, despite the current situation, that you are all doing well, that you have been able to enjoy it to the fullest, and you have been able to achieve some of your dreams and goals! For my part I was able to take the opportunity to rest, and I admit that resuming writing, when you have spent days without writing, it is difficult! But I'm back! I hope you’ll like it like the other ones! Feel free to tell me what you think about it! Have a great weekend to you all! See ya!)

#road 96 #road 96 game #stan and mitch #stan sanchez #Stan and mitch road96 #mitch sanchez #Road96SonyaSanchez #sonya sanchez

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